Prince of the Icemark (25 page)

“Where?”

The small party stopped and turned to scan the long line of shields and overturned wagons. “Observe the large drum horse that holds the centre of that part of the defence,” the general said, pointing out Beorg with his rider Theodred. “He is the anchor and key to the entire section. If I concentrate the attack there and bring him down, the wall will collapse.”

The King nodded, reluctantly accepting the plan. “Very well, General, order up your units.”

But Romanoff had already marched off, calling for her officers as she went, and falling into conference with them as they joined her.

“It seems, my dear, that the initiative has been seized,” said the King quietly, as he watched his general laying out her plans.

“Never mind, my dark delight,” the Queen replied with venom. “There will still be opportunities to remove unwanted personnel.”

*   *   *

All along the shieldwall the defenders prepared for the coming attack. The wounded had been carried to the centre of the
position, where a contingent of witches and physicians were doing their best in difficult conditions. The human dead lay in quiet rows, the Vampires in a huge heap.

Redrought tried to be everywhere at once and almost succeeded. His tall striding figure could be seen checking defences and readiness throughout the entire position, and wherever he went the fighters sent up a cheer for him and also for Cadwalader, who was in his habitual place on the young King’s shoulder. The huge fighting cat had become a mascot for the invasion force, and someone in the fyrd had even found time to make and raise a rough standard of a black cat with a blood-red snarling mouth and striking claws. Redrought gave his approval of the improvised banner and, more importantly, Cadwalader also voiced his appreciation with a gruff purr.

Suddenly the bellowing and howling from the monstrous army of Their Vampiric Majesties began to rise to greater levels, and warning shouts sounded along the shieldwall. Soon the war-horns began to growl in answer, and the drum corps sent out a rattling rhythm. Everyone was aware that this would be the final stage of the battle. Here, victory and defeat would be decided; here, life and death would be apportioned.

K
ahin and her escort of Hypolitan cavalry rode through the forest in almost total silence. They’d entered The-Land-of-the-Ghosts four hours earlier, just as the sun had risen over the eastern arm of the Wolfrock Mountains, and they’d reached the tree line two hours after that. The soldiers had been riding with shields on their arms and lances couched from the moment they’d set foot beyond the mouth of the pass and it was obvious that they expected to be ambushed at any moment.

White Annis rode beside Kahin on a mule that the Royal Adviser had insisted be given to the witch. Since they’d shared the shelter of Kahin’s tent, a friendship had developed between them. It seemed that they’d discussed every subject
under the sun as they’d tried to while away the tedious miles of the journey, but now as they approached the eaves of the forest they were as nervously silent as everyone else.

The sudden thunder of approaching hooves made the cavalry close ranks and glare along the path that meandered through the silent dark trees. Then, at last, a scout who’d been sent out an hour earlier galloped into view and they raised their lances. The scout reined to a halt.

“Give your report, trooper Lazerides,” the commander ordered.

“Ma’am. A battlefield lies ahead. Thousands lie dead.”

“Are there more human than monster?”

“Ma’am?”

“Are there more human dead than monsters?”

“I . . . I can’t be sure. More monster, I think.”

“You
think?!
Why didn’t you make certain? You know as well as anyone that the victor of a battle usually has fewer casualties!”

“Ma’am, there were looters, and I used up all my arrows defending myself. I thought it best to report what I know rather than risk being killed.”

The commander paused, then nodded. “Quite right. But the fact that there were looters from the enemy’s army doesn’t bode well for our comrades—”

“No, Ma’am, forgive me,” the scout interrupted. “These looters weren’t enemy warriors; some of them were little more than animals and I could only distinguish between them and the scavengers because they weren’t eating the dead, but taking valuables from them. I gained the impression that they’d just come down from the hills and forests to take advantage of an opportunity. There were no Vampire soldiers or werewolf
warriors amongst them . . . at least not living ones.”

“I see,” said the commander. “Then there’s still some small hope.” She now turned to Kahin. “The decision must be yours, Madam Royal Adviser. Do you wish to go on?”

“Of course, Commander. What’s the alternative? Turn back at the first sign of danger on a mission that’s almost guaranteed to be dangerous? I think not.”

“Very well,” the officer said, and raising her voice, she ordered, “The escort will ride with bows strung.”

In less than an hour the party was riding through a field of corpses that lay in tangled heaps everywhere. Scavengers flapped heavily away or scurried off to the nearby trees as they approached. Obviously the numbers of the escort were now too great for any looters to attack.

The stench was appalling and Kahin needed all of her willpower not to gag. White Annis seemed unaffected, but stared at the scene avidly, and the Royal Adviser soon realised she was looking for any survivors that she might help. But there were none. Even in the freezing autumnal winds, swarms of flies billowed over the field like black clouds, and though the dead may have been silent, those that fed on them certainly were not; a constant insect buzzing was interspersed with the calling of birds and the yapping of foxes and jackals.

It still wasn’t clear who’d won, but Kahin thought there were far fewer human dead. She was shocked that nothing had been done to try and protect them from scavengers, but realised in the heat of battle there wouldn’t have been time for such things, and perhaps afterwards the army had gone in pursuit. Perhaps they were still in pursuit . . . or being pursued.

After a few minutes the escort commander joined Kahin and saluted. “A request for orders, Madam Royal Adviser: Where exactly are we heading, and when will we know we’ve arrived?”

“We’re heading for wherever King Redrought has decided to go, and we’ll have arrived when I say so,” she answered with energy. “Even among the chaos of the battlefield I think I’m right in saying that it’s pretty obvious which route everyone took.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the commander agreed. “We’ll follow the trail, then, and see what happens.”

The small party of one Royal Adviser, one witch and ten cavalry escort continued across the battlefield and up the hills that closed the north end of the valley. They soon entered the dark and brooding pine forest again, and its oppressive atmosphere quickly silenced all speech amongst them. The sun was still high in the sky, but the shadows of evening were already gathering beneath the thick green-black canopy of the trees. Soon it would be dark, and the thought of spending the night in the brooding forest wasn’t a prospect that pleased any of them.

R
edrought hurried to the position he’d held in the previous attack, and settled his shield into the wall. This was where he expected the hammer blow to fall, and the presence of the Spirits of Battle seemed to confirm this. Everything around him was shimmering; half-heard voices and half-seen forms were clouding the edge of his senses. But still they didn’t possess him. For a moment he physically and mentally sagged, but then the great clamouring explosion of sound from the enemy erupted to greater heights, and at last they burst forward in a charge.

King Guthmok and the white-pelted Ukpik werewolves led the attack. They headed straight for Redrought, who shook himself back to readiness, and the shieldwall braced for onset.
Closer they came, howling and raging, their white pelts brilliant in the cold sunshine.

At the last moment, they jinked aside and slammed into the wall near Beorg the drum horse. They hit at a raking angle, and many fell. The massive horse stood like a rock, and the wall shuddered but held. Theodred, his rider, drew his axe and hewed at the werewolves as though felling trees, but still they swarmed forward, howling and snarling. The wall began to bow under the pressure and immediately a wild rush of the fyrd joined them, shoring them up like a living buttress.

Now the Vampire squadrons rose up, and with wild screeches dived into the attack. The longbows began to thrum, bringing down dozens, but more Vampires got through the hail of arrows, landing on the housecarles and ripping out their throats in crimson fountains of blood.

All along the wall the zombies and Rock Trolls rolled forward, smashing into the shields like an unstoppable sea. Only dismemberment or fire would stop the zombies, and they clamoured at the wall, stinking corpses that killed and sucked fresh brains through eye sockets.

Redrought and Cadwalader led the stance against the Rock Trolls, who hammered at the wall with giant clubs. The young King seized a longbow and shot bodkin arrows into the monsters’ thick hides, bringing down dozens, before taking his axe and hacking them down in a rush of black blood. All around him the Spirits of Battle swarmed through the air and he desperately willed them to seize him, body and mind. But still nothing happened and he fought on.

A sudden clamour of rattling wings made Redrought pause and he looked up to see two giant bats preparing to land. They spiralled down, at the last moment transforming into their
human shapes and stepping elegantly out of flight. Their Vampiric Majesties had come to war.

They drew swords as vicious as steel talons, as delicate as spider’s silk, and they killed with the grace of ballet dancers and the speed of striking snakes. Dozens fell to their deadly dance, and the wall began to fall back before their fey power. With a roar of pure rage and hatred Redrought smashed his way through the Rock Trolls and stood before them, barring the way.

The monstrous monarchs drew back their lips in snarling smiles and the Queen drove a straight-armed thrust at Redrought’s face. He parried the cut, and, swinging his axe, smashed it down to break the Queen’s arm through the black shield she carried. She fell to one knee, her head bowed in pain, and the mortal King aimed for the curve of her neck.

His chopping blow was blocked by the Vampire King, and Redrought broke his cheek with the haft of his axe. The Undead sovereign reeled away and Redrought turned back to the Queen, smashing her flat to the ground and raising his axe for the final blow.

Before it fell, a far distant musical note, bright and sharp and clean, cut through the air. Redrought paused and turned towards the sound. Could it be . . . ? But then a scream of rage burst through the din of battle, and with it rose the yowling voice of Cadwalader. The young King glared about. The warrior cat was bounding through the fighting, and landed at last on Redrought’s shoulder. The scream came again, and Cadwalader stood and stared over the battle to where Beorg the giant drum horse stood.

Ukpik werewolves were swarming around him like a living blizzard. Theodred’s headless corpse rocked back and forth as
his mighty horse reared to strike with his fore-hooves again and again, bringing down the powerful Ukpiks with deadly blows. But as each one fell, more crowded in to take its place. The huge horse stumbled, but he reared again and struck down more of the foe. Even so, the shieldwall he anchored was giving back and more of the white werewolves were driving forward, sensing success.

“NO!” Redrought’s voice boomed over the air, and he began to run towards the struggle. Nearby, a section of the fyrd saw the King and Cadwalader thunder past, and, raising their home-made banner of a fighting cat, they ran in support.

As he charged on, Redrought could see Beorg being dragged down to his hocks by the Ukpiks, their white pelts dappled red with blood. And now, with howls of joy, they parted to let through their King, Guthmok. His dark fur looked black against their white, his yellow eyes burned like flames, and with a roar he led a charge to where Beorg fought valiantly to regain his feet.

“NO!” Redrought roared again, and now at last he felt the Spirits of Battle surging over his body. He could hear their raging voices and sense their ferocity as suddenly they invaded his brain and filled him with a strength and a fighting fury that made him froth at the mouth. His own warriors drew back as they watched their young King go Bare-Sark.

He felt the fighting power of his ancestors coursing through his body, filling his muscles with a towering strength, sharpening his senses so that he
felt
the world around him with a clarity he’d never known before. And his mind raged with the ferocity of the fighting beasts of the forest: wolf and bear, stag and wild boar.

He felt unbearably hot in the leather and steel of his
armour, and, wrenching at it, he stripped all clothing away to stand naked on the field of battle. He had become a Bare-Sarker: possessed, powerful and deadly. His roar was that of a bellowing beast of the forest. His eyes were wild and startling, and saliva dripped from his mouth.

With his sights set on the failing drum horse, he covered the ground in four mighty bounds and drove into the foe. Three flew skywards on impact and the rest fell back before his ferocity, as he struck with his bare hands again and again, raking bloody furrows through flesh like sabre wounds, wrenching limbs from sockets and tearing heads from shoulders. Werewolf dead lay about him, and still he fought on with an unstoppable fury. Beorg struggled to his feet and Cadwalader leapt onto his back, where he reared onto his hind legs, shrieking his support. The shieldwall stood firm again, and the opposing forces of defence and attack stood toe to toe, neither giving ground.

King Guthmok surged to the fore and howled a challenge. Redrought answered, and the two leapt at each other to meet with a sound like an avalanche in the mountains. For a moment the pair were evenly matched, trading blow for blow. But then the Bare-Sarking human King seized Guthmok’s neck in his rage-powered hands and ripped out flesh and muscle, tendon and windpipe, to leave a ruined and haemorrhaging hole where once there had been a throat.

The dying werewolf tried to close the wound with his doubled fist, but the blood gushed skywards in a crimson arc and slowly he collapsed into a crumpled heap. The Ukpiks immediately despaired and began to fall back, but before they could turn and run, the clatter of bat wings sounded and Vampire squadrons flew in to support them. Black-armoured
warriors stepped out of flight, bolstering the Ukpik line and driving forward once again.

Above the roar of battle, the high clear note sounded again. It cut through the din of fighting and even the Bare-Sarker King paused to listen. He threw back his head and laughed with ferocious joy. “THE HYPOLITAN!” he roared wildly. “THE HYPOLITAN ARE WITH US!”

Lowering her horn, Athena led the Sacred Regiment of mounted archers in a furious attack on the rear of the enemy. Already the Rock Trolls had turned to meet the threat and stood waiting, their war hammers raised. Herakles led the mixed regiments of cavalry and infantry to hit them in the flank, but Athena directed her mounted archers in a head-on assault.

The Princess signalled to her warriors and vicious bodkin arrows were fitted to the strings of each bow. As one, the fighting women raised their weapons and charged down on the bellowing monsters, shooting a rain of death into their ranks. In a continual flow like the oiled movements of a precision machine, arrows were fired again and again into the thick hides of the trolls as the fearless ponies of the Sacred Regiment carried their riders into close range. Hundreds of the trolls fell in a raging welter of blood. For almost twenty minutes, the Sacred Regiment charged, wheeled and charged again, sending flight after flight of arrows into the enemy phalanx in a vicious ballet of move and counter-move.

At the head of the troll regiment stood a truly enormous creature. His hide was so stuck with arrows that he looked like a giant porcupine, but he boomed defiance at the fighting women, his strength steadying his warriors and keeping them
fighting. It was obvious that this was the chief of the troll soldiers and, signalling her women to wheel away, Athena turned her pony to attack him alone.

She fitted an arrow to her bow, and guiding her mount with her knees she drove in close to the mighty Rock Troll. With a roar he swung his hammer at the Princess, but her pony swerved aside, and standing in her stirrups Athena shot. The arrow buried itself deep into the throat of the troll. It staggered back, but then raised its war hammer again and with a mighty bellow swung at Athena. The weapon whistled through the air above her head as she ducked. But another arrow was already fitted to her bow, and standing again in her stirrups, she shot the monster in its eye. It threw back its head and roared in agony. Quickly the Princess shot again, piercing the second eye, and finally the troll crashed to earth like a mighty tree.

The Sacred Regiment now galloped back in to support their commander, raining death down on the troll phalanx. For a while the creatures held their position, but as more and more fell they gave a despairing roar and fled.

Again Athena raised her silver horn to her lips and gave a great blast. This time it was answered immediately as the Basilea rode to join her daughter. Minutes earlier she’d been riding down through the foothills from the eastern pass when she’d heard the noise of battle and urged her warriors to greater speed. Redrought’s plan had worked almost perfectly: the two Hypolitan contingents had travelled unhindered through the Wolfrock Mountains, and now they were both ready to spring the trap on Their Vampiric Majesties. Merging forces, they charged together into the ranks of the enemy.

Now the mounted archers shot fire-arrows into the ranks of zombies and Vampires that stood against them. Soon the air was thick with oily black smoke as the Undead warriors staggered around, blazing like animated torches. In panic the army of Their Vampiric Majesties began to retreat before the ferocity of the Hypolitan.

The Bare-Sarking Redrought still stood with Beorg and Cadwalader, giving the shieldwall a triple anchor, and now the soldiers of the fyrd joined them. The position was stronger than it had ever been. The Vampire plan had failed, the initiative was lost, and soon the enemy commander decided to withdraw.

But as the black-armoured figure began to direct the pull-out, covering the Ukpik retreat and maintaining a rearguard, Cadwalader’s eyes narrowed in hated recognition.

Romanoff!

The cat leapt, landing within feet of the general. She spun about, sword raised, and immediately recognised the psychopomp. All colour drained from her pale face, and for a moment the point of her sword dropped as she faced her enemy. But then her warrior spirit regained its hold and she prepared to fight.

“Do you know death, General?” asked a voice uttered by no mouth, filling her head. She’d heard it before when last she’d faced Cadwalader, and now knew it was the psychopomp himself, talking directly to her, mind to mind.

In answer she screamed a wordless war cry and drove forward, her sword drawn.

“Do you know death, General? Because death knows you.” The voice settled in her head, bringing with it an unlovely
quiet. She looked around at the battle, and though she could see the fighting and the mayhem, she could hear nothing.

“This is the silence of oblivion, General. It waits for you.”

She screamed but made no sound.

Cadwalader snarled, his lips drawing away from teeth that gleamed as though lit from within, then slowly he stepped forward and reared up before her. Desperately she tried to raise her sword, but her arm wouldn’t respond. It hung cold and useless . . . as though dead.

The cat pounced and, seizing her throat in his jaws, he unhurriedly ripped it open with slow, deliberate relish. Blood spurted as the general’s eyes opened wide in terror. Cadwalader’s mind now reached into her dark brain, and when he found the animating force that gave her life, he slowly snuffed it out.

For a moment the corpse stood as though it wanted to argue a case for its continuing life, but then it fell as rigid and unbending as a stone column, its armour shattering around it.