Prince of the Icemark (2 page)

T
he escort, when it came, was comprised of two elderly soldiers riding broken nags. They were leading a similar mount for Redrought, and after the young Prince had struggled into the saddle he raised his hand in farewell to White Annis, who stood watching in the cave entrance.

“You’ll be fine, boy,” she told him confidently. “I’ve sent word to the Witchmother; she’ll give whatever help she can. We all will.”

Redrought didn’t really understand what she meant by this, but he did his best to smile, then turned his nag about and headed for the city.

*   *   *

They arrived on the Plain of Frostmarris just as the sun was setting. The city stood in silhouette against the brilliance of the western sky and Redrought could see the dark figures of guards patrolling the walls. He’d almost expected to find a smoking ruin, but the Vampire King and Queen had obviously not attacked yet. Perhaps there was some small hope after all. But he quickly dismissed the idea; better to despair and be pleasantly surprised, than hope too much and be crushed.

The plain consisted of a network of fertile fields that fed the capital city of Frostmarris, and as they rode across it everything seemed to be continuing as normal. Peasants were working the land, cattle cropping the grasses and farmers surveying the coming harvest, which promised to be good that year. It was almost as though no battle had been fought and lost; it was almost as though Their Vampiric Majesties weren’t even now planning the next stage of their campaign that would crush all human resistance once and for all. Despite everything, Redrought found his spirits rising and hope rekindling.

But then they reached the main gate of Frostmarris and the reality of the catastrophe came home to him. None of the few guards who protected the barbican and entrance tunnel were under seventy, and they were equipped with the oldest, rustiest, most dilapidated of weapons. Almost none of these elderly soldiers recognised him, and of those that did, most just stood and stared while one sketched a half-salute that translated itself into a vacant scratching of his head as Redrought rode by.

The streets were deserted, and most of the houses had purple and white mourning banners hanging from their windows. The wind moaned through the empty walkways like a
despairing soul, but worst of all was the terrible all-pervading sense that the city was simply waiting to die. Everyone knew that the army had been destroyed, and that the few old soldiers of the garrison would have no chance against the enemy when they chose to attack.

Redrought slumped in his saddle and rode the rolling gait of the broken-down old nag as though he was a fisherman rocking with the swell of the sea. He and his escort soon reached the citadel and were passed through the gates without comment. Only Grimswald, Redrought’s body-servant, showed any life, when he suddenly appeared in the entrance-way to the Great Hall and yelped for joy at the sight of his master.

“Oh, My Lord, you’re alive! You’re alive!” he shouted, scuttling forward like an excited crab. “I thought . . . I thought I’d lost you . . . I mean, I thought you’d died with all the rest!”

“No, Grimmy, I’m still here. Just,” the boy replied, and smiled properly for the first time since the battle. His old servant represented safety and a sense of normality that had been destroyed by the invasion.

The small, fussily neat man hugged him awkwardly, and Redrought returned the embrace, literally hanging on to him as though physical contact could somehow return everything to what it had been. Grimswald gently extracted himself and launched into a monologue of all that had happened while he’d been away. Redrought listened absently, but then suddenly grabbed his servant’s arm.

“Say that last bit again.”

“Erm . . . rats have been found in the palace grain bins . . .”

“No, before that.”

“Oh you mean the bit about the Wittanagast declaring you King if you were still alive.”

“Yes, that’s the bit . . .” Redrought fell silent as the full importance of what he’d just heard hit him. The Council of Elders had declared him King! For a moment he stood still, fully expecting a wave of excitement and euphoria to hit him. When it didn’t he nodded to Grimswald and walked through the huge doors and into the Great Hall. He was King, but only because his brother had been killed and there was no one else suitable. He tried to ignore the memory of the young man, who’d only been four years older than him, dying at the teeth and claws of the werewolves. But it was no good, and his eyes filled with tears as he remembered the kindness and sheer good fun of his brother Edward.

Before their father had died of a fever that not even the most skilled of the witches could cure, they’d had time to be typical boys of the Icemark, hunting in the Great Forest and racing their horses across the Plain of Frostmarris. But all that had ended when Edward had become King and the responsibilities of his new role had taken over his life. Even so, they’d still managed to snatch the occasional moment together between one duty and the next. Sometimes they’d just stood on the battlements of Frostmarris watching the world go by, telling jokes and enjoying each other’s company.

But now even that small pleasure had been taken away, and Redrought was alone in the world. He wasn’t even allowed time for any private grief because as he stood reminiscing in the shadows of the Great Hall, several of the guards recognised him and a buzz of excitement began to grow and spread throughout the palace.
Redrought’s alive! Redrought’s alive. We still have a King!

By the time he reached the huge throne that was carved in the likeness of a giant rearing bear, the hall was filled with members of the Wittanagast and household staff. He stood on the dais and raised his hand absently in acknowledgement of the ragged cheers that were beginning to break out. Then he sat down to think.

Soon he was forced to accept oaths of loyalty from the Council and everyone else present. But when he showed no signs of ordering a celebratory feast, the reality of the country’s dire situation reasserted itself, and most of the crowd wandered off. Redrought himself dismissed the rest, and settled as comfortably as he could into the throne of the ancestors he considered far greater than he could ever hope to be.

For the next hour or so, he thought things through as carefully and precisely as he could. His brother was dead, torn to pieces by Vampires and werewolves. The Vampire King and Queen had harboured ambitions to conquer the Icemark for many years and so had invaded. And now the battle had been lost, and the entire war would soon be too, if he, Redrought, couldn’t rally resistance. Half the country had fallen, from the Wolfrock Mountains in the north to the Great Forest in the Mid-Lands. He himself had only just escaped with his life.

But now he was King. Redrought Athelstan Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, the first of that name, and probably the last human ruler of the Icemark by any name. He was sixteen years old, commander of a broken army, ruler of a broken land, and he expected to die and his country to fall.

The only reason that the Vampire King and Queen hadn’t immediately advanced further and taken the capital city, Frostmarris, itself was probably because they knew they could do so any time they liked. He could count on no help from
the other provinces of the Icemark. When the tide of the battle had turned against them, the warriors of the Hypolitan in the north had retreated into their own country.

Alone in the Great Hall, Redrought tried to look like a strong King. The fact that he hadn’t managed to grow a man’s beard yet didn’t help his failing confidence, and added to that was the knowledge that the Wittanagast had only voted him into power because there was no other candidate. The council of old warriors had let it be known that as soon as an alternative presented itself he’d probably lose his throne, but so far not one of the experienced generals and leaders had straggled back from the battle. They must all have fallen when Their Vampiric Majesties and their ally, King Ashmok Blood-Drinker of the werewolves, had broken the human shieldwall and crushed the army.

So now the country had to make do with this beardless boy, Redrought, the last surviving scion of the House of Lindenshield. He was actually big and imposing for his age, or at least he would have been if he’d only managed to sit up straight in the throne and made the effort to look Royal. But like everyone else he was crushed.

It was probably a sign of their own apathy that the guards let Kahin Darius through without questioning her. She was one of the richest merchants in Frostmarris, and the leader of a small community of her people who lived near the main gate of the city.

The Zoroastrians had first arrived in the country two centuries earlier when they’d fled persecution in their homeland, and the King of the Icemark had offered them sanctuary. The fact that a woman led the people who were noted for their
abilities as merchants was due entirely to the quiet and considered forcefulness of her nature, and her ability to argue her case with good reason and fairness.

After her husband had died of fever when still relatively young, Kahin had taken over the running of the family business and had tripled its output and size within ten years, and this fact, coupled with the almost tangible air of authority that surrounded her, had won her the abiding respect of her community.

She was well aware of the dire straits the country was in, and like all good merchants she was also well aware of exactly how this would affect the markets. It was imperative that the new King learned to rule quickly, and one of his first jobs would have to be the rebuilding of the army.

Kahin was almost surprised when she found herself striding unchallenged through the huge double doors that led into the Great Hall, but seizing her opportunity she headed for the throne. By the time she was halfway across the hall, the guards had gathered themselves enough to cross their spears in front of her and demand to know her business.

“I am Kahin Darius,” she said quietly. “And I have come to set a proposition before the King.”

“Why should he want to see you, merchant?” one of the soldiers spat, showing the jealous contempt that some felt for the people who’d established themselves as the most successful entrepreneurs in the land.

“Why should he not?”

Before this could be answered a tired young voice broke into the small confrontation. “Let her come forward.”

The merchant smiled quietly and approached the throne. “I . . . that is, we . . . I mean my people, are pleased to know
you are safe, Your Majesty.”

“Your people?” Redrought asked listlessly as he gazed at the small, round, elderly woman before him.

“The Zoroastrians, servants of the Sacred Fire. We live in the quarter known as the Barbouta near the eastern gate.”

“Oh, yes, the merchants.”

Kahin was interested to hear no contempt in the young King’s tones. Usually her people were barely tolerated by the other citizens of Frostmarris, even though most of them owed their income and trade to the brilliant business minds and integrity of the Zoroastrian community.

“Your Majesty, our Trade Guilds have held convocation and it has been decided to offer a . . . donation to the Royal coffers.”

Redrought looked up for the first time. “A donation?”

“Yes. You’ll need money to rebuild the army and re-arm your soldiers.”

The boy-King stared at her and then began to laugh. “Army? What army? And for that matter . . . what soldiers? They’re all dead . . . ripped to pieces by the Vampires and werewolves. There’s nothing left. We’re defenceless.”

Redrought continued to laugh, but slowly the sound translated itself into sobs that became louder and louder as he again remembered the full horror of the battle.

The guards who still stood nearby, looked away, embarrassed by this appalling breakdown of Royal protocol. But Kahin only felt a sudden need to comfort the young boy who’d obviously seen more horrors than one his age ever should. Quickly she stepped up onto the dais and, taking the boy-King in her arms, she offered motherly comfort, gently whispering calming words in her own language and stroking
his hair. Eventually Redrought regained control and sitting up, he nodded to the merchant, who immediately stepped away and resumed her position at the foot of the dais.

“This . . . this donation,” the boy went on, sniffing loudly. “How much is it?”

“Ten thousand gold pieces,” Kahin replied.

“Ten thou . . . !” Redrought’s mouth dropped open. “I could equip three armies with that.” Then he paused and his shoulders slumped. “But not even that amount of money can buy back the dead. What’s the point of ordering weapons and equipment if there are no soldiers to carry them?”

“Forgive me, but My Lord has been away from the city for many days, and he doesn’t know that survivors from the army have been making their way back here.”

Redrought looked up hopefully. “How many?”

Kahin shrugged. “I don’t know the details, you’ll have to order a roll call for that, but there must be several hundred.”

“Several hundred.” Redrought looked as though he was going to start laughing again, but he regained control. “What’s the use of that? We stood in our thousands against the Vampire King and Queen, and they smashed us. We haven’t a hope.”