Prince of the Icemark (27 page)

“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 some
one
who would call to him. Someone he’d be very proud to call his friend.

T
hey 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

Text © Stuart Hill 2013

First paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2013
This electronic edition published in 2013
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Cover design by Steve Wells
Cover illustration by David Wyatt

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ISBN 978-1-906427-33-7
ePub ISBN 978-1-909489-02-8