Prince of the Icemark Read online

  “Good, sit down. We’ll start supper while we wait.”

  The Consort of the Basilea nodded. “Fighting Vampires is hungry work.”

  The cold face of Artemis softened as she allowed herself an affectionate smile and looked over Herakles’ lean and tough frame. “You always eat well after battle. It’s a pity you stint yourself the rest of the time.”

  Herakles allowed himself a smile in return. “I’ll call the chamberlain, shall I?”

  Artemis nodded. They’d recently taken to having their meals in the War Room; as most of their time away from the battlefield was used to discuss tactics for the fighting that would follow, it seemed logical to eat while planning.

  After the servant had gone they sat side by side and waited in comfortable silence. The Basilea absently reached over and took her Consort’s hand, the stern mask of her face hiding the workings of her agile mind as she thought through the events of the day. But then quick, light footsteps began to echo down the corridor, and Artemis and Herakles looked up just as a young woman stepped through the open door.

  “Mama, Papa,” she said in greeting, her face as stern as her mother’s.

  “Dinner won’t be long,” Herakles said without preamble and grinned. “I’ve built up quite an appetite.”

  “Me too,” the young woman replied. “Fighting’s hungry work.”

  Her father grinned. “Just like your old dad.”

  “Sit down, Athena,” the Basilea said, “and give your report.”

  She walked over to join her parents and sat on the proffered chair. “The southern gate successfully defended. But with heavy losses, I’m afraid. Dad – Commander Herakles – sent reinforcements and the Vampires were driven off.” She grinned, her young face softening so that she looked like a much prettier version of her father. “They lost far more than we did. Hah! That wing commander won’t be leading any more attacks ever again.”

  Her mother patted her hand. “Good. Ah, here’s dinner. Athena, you can’t eat in your helmet and gauntlets, take them off.”

  The meal was laid out before them with little ceremony. War reduced etiquette to the barest minimum, and they all began eating before the servants had even withdrawn. “I’ve been to see Saphia,” Athena said. “That’s why I was late.”

  “How is she?” her mother asked.

  “Impatient to get better, of course. But it’ll be a while before she can ride with the Sacred Regiment again. Her arm’s mending well enough, but it was such a bad break it could be weeks before she’ll be able to draw a bow.”

  “The regiment misses her,” said Artemis. As Basilea, she was the commander of the mounted archers who’d dedicated their lives to the service of the Mother Goddess. “No one shoots like her, or rides like her. On the downside no one else is as reckless as her either. She wouldn’t have been so badly injured if she hadn’t tried to hold off the werewolf attack on her own.”

  “The entire regiment could have been lost if she hadn’t,” Athena replied. “It was because of her we managed to scramble through that narrow defile, and hold off the attack until the infantry broke through.”

  “No one’s denying her bravery or her abilities as a fighter,” Artemis said, recognising the defensive tone in her daughter’s voice. “And I’m grateful for what she did. I’m just saying that one day her luck will run out and she’ll be killed.”

  Athena nodded and shuddered gently, but then determinedly straightened her shoulders and changed the subject to one that worried them all. “Any news from Frostmarris?” There had been several debriefings and analyses of the battle as soon as the battered Hypolitan army had made it back safely to their main city of Bendis. But the Vampires had attacked almost immediately and there had been no time to explore every source of information.

  “Nothing,” her mother answered. “There’ve been no communications from the capital since before the battle. The Vampires and Snowy Owls target any pigeon just in case it’s carrying a message, so even if the city still exists, we’ve no way of knowing. But it might be that there were no survivors from the King’s army after their shieldwall was broken.”

  “Including the King himself,” Herakles said. “I’ve heard from sources I trust that he was killed with all his bodyguard.”

  “Sources you trust?” Basilea Artemis questioned.

  “Commanders Antonius and Hero. They were the last of the Hypolitan to leave the battle field.”

  “And did they see anything of Prince Redrought?”

  “No. Nothing at all.”

  The Basilea sighed. “Well, that’s it then,” she finally said. “Unless the Wittanagast has survived long enough to elect a new King, we’re on our own.”

  Athena and Herakles said nothing. Fighting Their Vampiric Majesties without allies or support wasn’t sustainable, and eventually Bendis would inevitably fall.

  “It seems the Icemark is already dead,” the Basilea went on. “It just doesn’t know it yet. The Royal House of Lindenshield is wiped out and there’ll never be a new ruler in Frostmarris ever again . . . at least not a human one.”

  Once again Kahin was waiting for Redrought to arrive in the Campaign Room. There had been further developments in the reconstruction of the army. So far only the infantry had been painstakingly rebuilt, but now there was an opportunity to remake the cavalry.

  With an eye to a potentially huge market, traders from the Polypontian Empire had risked entering a war-zone and had arrived with a train of over a thousand horses! Obviously they’d somehow heard that the Icemark’s cavalry had been annihilated in the Battle of the Northern Plain and had moved in with replacement mounts before anyone else could snap up the sales. Once Redrought had arrived, he and Kahin would be heading down to the market area in the city to inspect them. She may not have known anything about horses, but as her people would be bankrolling any deals, she was determined to be on hand.

  Suddenly she became aware of a change in the atmosphere, almost like a huge ship pushing a bow-wave before it. “Hiya, Kahin!” Redrought boomed as he erupted into the room. “Are you ready to go and have a look at these gee-gees?”

  Boy or not, King of the Icemark or not, he really was an irritatingly loud person at times. “Yes, My Lord. Will the survivors of the original cavalry squadrons be meeting us at the market?”

  “Yeah, but there aren’t many of them. Most went down with their horses when the werewolves broke their charge. Still there are just enough to help train new recruits and they’ll all make good squadron commanders. We’ve at least got the core of a new cavalry. It just depends on the horses now.”

  “The traders are supposed to be the best in the Polypontian Empire. They supply the Imperial cavalry and are supported by General Scipio Bellorum himself.”

  Redrought looked thoughtful. “Yeah, odd, that. If these horses are everything the traders claim them to be, why did that firebrand general of theirs let them out of the country? You’d think he’d want them for his own forces.”

  Kahin smiled conspiratorially. “The word amongst the merchants and buyers is that Bellorum knows nothing about the trade mission. He’s busy with another one of his wars far to the south, in a land known simply as The Desert Kingdom where it never rains and it’s blisteringly hot every day of the year.” The country actually bordered Persis, the homeland of the Zoroastrian people, where they’d lived for many generations before they were driven out by terrible persecutions.

  Redrought shuddered. “Imagine that. It sounds like hell. Oh well, come on, let’s get down to the market and buy these horses before Bellorum finds out.”

  The smell hit them before anything else. A thousand large animals packed into a relatively small square in the centre of the city wasn’t likely to be the freshest of places, but all of them had been well fed and watered throughout the journey to keep them in tip-top condition for potential buyers, and that morning had been no exception. The best hay and oats had soon been efficiently converted to steaming mounds of droppings and then liberal
ly sprayed with gallons of urine.

  Kahin was mother and grandmother to over twenty children, so she was very well used to all types of bodily wastes of both solid and liquid varieties. But no child could compete with a war horse when it came to waste production. She could hardly breathe for the stench, and the air was alive with flies of every size and type. Even Redrought was moved to comment.

  “A bit ripe, don’t you think?”

  Kahin nodded in agreement, her mouth and nose covered with a perfumed handkerchief.

  “Still, we want to ride them to war, not invite them to dinner,” Redrought went on. “Where are these merchants?”

  He didn’t have to wait long as a group of richly dressed men immediately singled him out and headed towards him. Redrought felt a bit of a lout when he saw their beautiful clothes and exquisite manners, but he soon dismissed such worries as a waste of time and effort for the ruler of a country at war.

  He did wonder, though, how they knew he was the King. He’d arrived with no pomp or circumstance, no servants and not even a banner to denote who he was. Kahin, of course, could have told him that a tall muscular youth with flaming red hair, a voice like a hurricane and a face that already looked as though it could have been used to smash granite was a pretty rare sight anywhere. It was also common knowledge that the new King had a Royal Adviser who was an old merchant of the tribe of Zoroastrians. And as the flame-haired youth was accompanied by an elderly lady who looked like a fat belligerent mouse, then he couldn’t really be anyone else.

  The merchants joined him just as the surviving cavalry troopers from the Battle of the Northern Plain walked up.

  “My Lord, My Lord!’ said one of the traders. ‘May we be the first people from beyond the borders of the Icemark to congratulate you on your ascension to the throne.”

  “Yeah . . . right . . . thanks,” said Redrought, for some reason embarrassed by the man’s oily manner. Quickly he changed the subject and got down to business. “Now, what about these horses?”

  The spokesman for the Polypontian traders immediately rearranged his expression from that of impromptu envoy to the open honesty of an ethical businessman. “My Lord will find none better in the north or the Empire. Were General Scipio Bellorum not on campaign far to the south in the land of burning sands, then he would undoubtedly have bought them for his own cavalry.”

  “All right. You won’t mind if my soldiers inspect them, then,” the young King said, and nodded to the troopers without waiting for an answer.

  The soldiers now spread out and began to select horses randomly for inspection. Redrought watched them for a while, then turned to Kahin. “What do you think? Shall we go and find something for me to ride?”

  “I thought that was the entire purpose of the exercise,” she answered sharply, as the stench of horse dung continued to defeat her perfumed handkerchief.

  “Really? I thought it was to rebuild the cavalry. And besides, the only reason you’re here is to make sure we don’t overspend.”

  Kahin didn’t deny his words and she trotted after him as he led the way deep into the horsy throng. The Polypontian merchants followed along, and soon Redrought was at the head of an unlikely procession of one stern old lady and a gaggle of fawning horse traders. There was an addition to the party when a large black shadow slunk along the ground and clambered up Redrought’s legs before finally settling on his shoulder.

  “Cadwalader! I wish you wouldn’t use me as a sodding ladder!” his owner said, rubbing his calf where a set of sharp claws had found a foothold. The cat meowed throatily and rubbed his head against his master’s cheek, and Redrought’s mood immediately softened. “Aw, that’s all right, you big thmelly puthy cat, just be more careful next time.” Cadwalader may have looked like a slightly smaller version of the giant black hunting cats that were supposed to haunt the jungles of the Southern Continent, but he and Redrought were already becoming inseparable. As Kahin said, they were kindred spirits: large, powerful and at times, less than hygienic.

  The King continued a loving dialogue with the cat as they wound their way through the pickets of tethered animals, completely oblivious of the glances the horse traders were exchanging. But he suddenly stopped in front of a black horse that had deep scars along its flanks and haunches. “What happened here, then?”

  The traders’ spokesman bustled up. “That’s Romulus. Used to be one of our finest stud stallions, and a brave war horse too, but then . . .” He paused as he realised he was probably about to talk himself out of a sale.

  Redrought turned to him. “Well?”

  The horse trader shrugged and went on. “A party of werewolves crossed the border one night. My stud farm is less than an hour’s ride away and they obviously saw it as a good hunting ground. Romulus was in the largest paddock with his herd of mares and foals . . . We don’t know exactly what happened, but we found him the next morning badly wounded and with the corpses of three werewolves under his hooves. None of the mares or foals were touched.”

  “Hah, a true warrior, then,” said Redrought appreciatively. “It takes a brave horse to stand up to the Wolf-folk.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” the trader agreed. “But ever since that day, his spirit has deserted him. It’s as if his mind has turned in on itself and he hardly functions at all.”

  The King fell silent for a moment, remembering his own reaction to the horror of battle, before the witch, White Annis, had put him into the healing sleep that had restored his mind. “So why did you bring him on this trip?”

  “I hoped that the changing world and new sights and sounds would bring him back from . . . from wherever it is he’s gone to. But so far . . .” He shrugged expressively.

  Redrought nodded, but before he could say anything, Kahin interrupted his thoughts. “Well, there’s no point in wasting our time with this old crock. There are plenty of others to choose from.”

  He was about to answer when Cadwalader leapt down from his shoulder and positioned himself directly beneath the drooping muzzle of the black horse. The cat’s eyes narrowed and he began to mutter to himself in a series of muted squalls and groans.

  “What’s the animal doing?” Kahin asked in exasperation, impatient to get on.

  “I don’t know,” Redrought replied. “He seems interested in the horse for some reason. I wonder . . . he is a witch’s cat. Perhaps he can do something.”

  “He’s a cat,” the Royal Adviser said, summing up all her disbelief, distaste and distrust in the one phrase.

  “I know, I know, but just wait a moment.”

  Cadwalader continued to mutter to himself, then he stood and let out a loud yowl. The horse’s ears flicked slightly, but the muzzle still drooped. The cat stalked forward slowly and yowled again, his eyes seeming almost to glow as the sunlight glinted in their depths. The horse’s muzzle rose, but then drooped again.

  “All he’s doing is annoying the animal,” Kahin went on. “He’s likely to get squished if he’s not careful.”

  “Just give him a moment. I want to see what happens,” Redrought insisted, and watched closely as Cadwalader walked slowly around to the shoulder of the horse, then suddenly leapt onto its back.

  If the creature hadn’t been the King’s cat, the horse trader would have grabbed it by the scruff of its neck and thrown it into the nearest pile of dung. But as it was, all he could do was watch as it stalked up the gracefully arching neck of the war horse and forced its muzzle into one of the flicking ears. The small audience of King, horse traders and Royal Adviser could hear the cat’s muttering voice, muffled by a large black ear. Then Cadwalader let out a sudden wailing screech that echoed back from the surrounding buildings.

  The world erupted into a tangle of flailing hooves and outraged screaming as the horse reared up onto its hind legs. Redrought leapt backwards, falling in a heap and dragging Kahin with him, and the traders scrambled in all directions.

  Cadwalader jumped lightly to the ground, and calmly walked round to sit facing the horse as
its hooves crashed down. But it didn’t rear again; it simply shook its head as though shaking off troublesome flies and then whickered down its nose as it looked around at its surroundings for the first time. Eventually its eyes moved down to where Cadwalader sat between its front hooves. It whickered again and lowered its muzzle to snuff gently at the cat, who returned the greeting by rubbing his cheek against the horse’s soft nose.

  “I think you’ve got your stallion back,” said Redrought to the horse trader, as he helped Kahin to her feet. “That in itself has got to be worth a discount. Just see it as a bonus and knock it off the price.”

  “You’re not buying that one, surely?!” Kahin puffed. “It’s scarred and battered and you don’t even know how it’ll react in battle! It might bolt or freeze or try to throw you!”

  The young King slowly approached the stallion, which now stood, head raised, snuffling the air and looking around at the sights and sounds of the market. “He’ll be just fine. Him and me know exactly what it’s like to face battle and lose something of yourself to the blood and the killing. But the next time he faces it, he’ll have me with him.”

  Kahin looked at the boy who represented the last desperate defence of his people, and saw something beyond the usual earthy physical creature he was. She saw the mystery of the rule of kings and queens. They governed the people with absolute power, they lived in luxury and possessed huge wealth. But in times of crisis they were called upon to lead in battle and even to lay down their lives for the people they governed. This was the covenant between ruler and ruled. Failure meant death, and the loss of the respect and love of the people could lead to revolution and even execution. But success meant adulation and deep reverence, and could lead the people to believe that their monarch was special, precious, even someone or something that was almost other than human. Kahin could see this now in Redrought’s certainty that the scarred stallion would face battle bravely, and she could see it also in the self-possession of the young boy-King who, nonetheless, could still sink into a quagmire of ineptitude and embarrassment in certain circumstances.