The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark (4 page)

“I promise,” the deep voice growled again.

“And your people?”

“And my people.”

“How do we know we can trust you?”

A strange whining, snuffling noise came from the werewolf, and Thirrin realized he was laughing. “You don’t. You’ll just have to trust … me.”

“And what happens if your allies call for war against us? Could you ignore the Vampire King and Queen?”

“Look, if you’re going to search for problems, you might as well kill me now and have done with it,” the wolfman answered sniffily.

Redrought nodded. “Sometimes you just have to take risks. Thirrin, the prisoner’s yours.”

She shouted in delight, leaped onto the dais, and hugged her father. “Thanks, Dad,” she whispered in his ear. Then, recovering her composure, she knelt before him and said, “I give thanks, my father. May your decision be proved right and true.”

“It’d better be,” he answered gruffly, and began to stroke Primplepuss, who’d recovered from her earlier fright and was having a quick wash.

Thirrin turned to the guard. “Release the prisoner.”

Again a roar of protest went up, but the King nodded his agreement and the bonds were cut.

The werewolf stood rubbing his wrists and staring around the hall, his expression wary and amazed. The Princess had fought for his life and repaid his mercy.

She’d taken a terrible risk and put her trust in a species that had been enemies of her people for centuries. The huge creature was suddenly moved by her bravery. There was something in her fire and fragility that touched him deeply, and as a monarch with more than twenty years’ experience of
rule, he knew quality and presence when he saw it. This Princess of the human-folk was going to be deeply important in the struggles to come.

With a sudden urge to repay Thirrin’s courage, he strode forward and knelt before her. “By the ever-changing phases of the Blessed Moon, I, Grishmak Blood-drinker, King of the Wolffolk, pledge lifelong friendship to the Icemark and its ruler and particularly to Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield. Your pain is my pain, your joy is my joy, your war is my war!”

The wolfman’s voice echoed around the strangely silent Great Hall, then the creature threw back his head and let out a long, blood-chilling howl, which slowly descended through the scales to silence.

T
hirrin led the group deeper into the forest. They’d been riding all morning, exercising some of the horses from the royal stables. There was no actual need for her to join the soldiers and stable hands whose job it was to keep Redrought’s war stallions fit and well, but it was a great excuse for getting out of the schoolroom.

Standing in her stirrups, she raised the pace to a canter, weaving in and out of the trees and slowly drawing ahead of the others. She breathed deeply, inhaling the rich scent of the leaf mold disturbed by the horses’ hooves, and felt the dust of the classroom blowing away. Overhead in the trees, rooks and ravens cawed harshly as they reported the presence of the riders, and on the forest floor, sudden rustlings in the undergrowth indicated where an animal had scurried away. But Thirrin was just happy to be out riding, watching the woodland blaze in its autumn colors and smelling the spicy scent of the damp earth. Among the trees it was surprisingly warm, and sunlight poured through the canopy as though the last dregs of the short Icemark summer had pooled there before the harsh northern winter set in.

But just ahead to the north, the sky was a deep charcoal gray, and an ominous rumble muttered deeply on the air. The storm had been developing all morning, and now it looked as though it was finally about to break. Lightning lit the clouds as they slowly advanced across the sky, and through natural breaks in the dense covering of leaves, Thirrin could see a distant haze of rain. Reluctantly she decided to give the order to turn back.

She turned her horse, reined to a halt, and watched as the others approached. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a huge animal burst from the trees. Even running on all fours it was as tall as a horse, but then it reared up on its hind legs, towering above them. It was a Greyling bear, massive, powerful, and quick to anger. It struck at the nearest rider, knocking him from the saddle, while the other horses bolted, snorting in terror.

Thirrin took control. Snatching a spear from the scabbard on her saddle and couching it like a lance, she charged. The bear turned to face her, and she hit it squarely in the chest. Roaring, it lunged at her, but her horse nimbly sidestepped and she drew her heavy broadsword.

She was desperate to lure the bear away from the injured man, so she retreated slowly, leading the animal clear. The spear was still stuck in its chest, but it hardly noticed as it struck at her with its razorlike claws. Thirrin fought back with her broadsword, inflicting wounds the beast barely registered as it rampaged after her. Soon she was beginning to wonder if it would be possible to bring it down at all.

Then the other riders burst back into the glade. They’d quickly regained control of their horses, and the battle-trained stallions leaped forward to the charge.

The soldiers shouted as they attacked, distracting the animal from Thirrin, who immediately seized another lance from her
scabbard. Two more spears were driven into the bear’s chest, and as the soldiers wheeled away, Thirrin thundered in, striking it in the flank.

The bear reared up to its greatest height and roared, its voice echoing throughout the forest, then slowly it pitched forward, crashed to the ground, and lay dead. A deep silence descended, and for a moment they all stared at the huge fallen bear. They were just about to start congratulating one another on actually managing to kill it when a groan reminded them of the fallen man.

They all dismounted and hurried over to him. His arm was torn open from shoulder to elbow and was bleeding heavily. Quickly the soldiers wrapped a cloak around the wound and tied it in place with cloth torn from their tunics. Nothing more could be done until they got back to Frostmarris, so after helping the wounded man back onto his horse, they began to ride for home.

A cold wind swept down on the forest, running before the storm that had continued its advance over the sky like the vanguard of an attacking army. Then the rain struck, hissing through the trees like a nest of angry snakes. The icy spears of water hit them with such force that leaves were stripped from the trees and the path quickly turned into a running river.

Thirrin decided to ride ahead in the hope of finding shelter for the injured man, and soon left the others behind. She was beginning to wonder what else might happen during such an eventful ride, and muttered a quick prayer to the Goddess for guidance. The track wound through the dense trees, giving no sign of any cover other than inadequate leaves and branches, and she was just about to turn back when a sudden explosion knocked her horse flat. She rolled clear of the flailing
hooves and drew her sword. But the only enemy was a lightning bolt that had shattered an old oak tree to splinters.

Her horse was struggling to rise, and she grabbed its reins and tried to calm it as it squealed and shook. Thunder crashed around them, drowning her words, and she was still wrestling with the animal when the rest of the party galloped down the path. One of the soldiers leaped down and helped her force her horse to a standstill.

“We’d be safer in the clearing, away from the trees,” Thirrin shouted, and quickly she led them back the way they had just come. Better to get soaked to the skin than struck by lightning.

But as they rode into the wide glade, they all reined to a halt in surprise. Ahead of them stood a tall cloaked figure, arms folded neatly, its hooded head bowed. What more would they have to face on this busy morning? Thirrin wondered. She and the soldiers drew their swords, but the figure didn’t move. After a moment she fought down her fear and rode forward.

“You stand before Princess Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, heir to the throne of the Icemark. Identify yourself!”

The figure bowed deeply, then stood straight and threw back its hood. Thirrin almost laughed in relief. It was only a boy. Tall for his age of about fifteen, but a boy nonetheless. For a moment, in the uncanny power of the storm, they’d all thought another of the creatures from The-Land-of-the-Ghosts had crossed the border. But this boy was obviously human as he wiped the rain out of his eyes and smiled.

“My name’s Oskan Witch’s Son. Come with me, I can give you shelter.”

Without another word he strode across the clearing and took a path through the trees that they’d somehow missed earlier. Coming to the conclusion that the boy could do them
no harm and that she and her companions needed help after the events of the morning, Thirrin urged her horse forward and the entire party followed. The path was steep and became gradually stony, making it quite difficult for the horses, but after a few minutes an outcrop of rocks reared up before them.

The way seemed to end at a sheer face of granite, but Oskan Witch’s Son beckoned them on. By this time, Thirrin was soaked to the skin and the storm was raging with even greater force, so, deciding to trust the boy, she rode toward the rocks until she saw a wide cave mouth set at an angle that hid it from the path.

The party rode into the cave and dismounted. It was clean and dry, with mounds of dry leaves and grass set against one wall as though the boy had gathered fodder for the horses of expected guests.

“You can bed down your animals here,” Oskan said. “Bring the injured man through this way.” He led Thirrin and the soldiers, who half carried their wounded comrade, along a narrow passage into a gathering gloom that steadily deepened to pitch-black.

“Wait there a moment,” Oskan said, and the soft clicking whisper of a tinderbox sounded. Suddenly light flared up from a central brazier, and fantastic shadows danced around a wide inner cave as Oskan set about kindling more lamps and braziers.

Soon the cave was brilliant with light, and Thirrin looked around her with interest. A smooth floor was overlaid with clean bracken, and several tables placed along the surprisingly regular walls were neatly piled with pots. A strong scent of herbs and spices made the place smell like the palace kitchens.

“Put him down there,” Oskan said to the soldiers, pointing to a bed set against one of the walls. They all watched in silence as the boy placed a table next to the bed and then moved around the cave gathering various objects. Once he had done this he fetched a stool, sat down, and unwound the cloak that had been used to bandage the man’s arm.

“What are you doing?” Thirrin asked suspiciously.

The boy hardly looked up from the mixture of red wine and salt he was preparing in a bowl, but eventually he said, “I’m going to stitch this man’s arm.”

“Stitch his arm?” she exploded. “He’s not a piece of torn cloth!”

“No,” Oskan agreed mildly. “But his skin and some of his muscle
are
torn, and stitching them together again will help it to heal much more quickly.”

Thirrin was just considering drawing her sword and driving the crazy boy off when one of the soldiers said, “My Lady, I know this lad. He’s the son of White Annis, the good witch who used to live in these parts.”

“So?” Thirrin said hotly. “Does that give him the right to torture my servant?”

“His mother was a healer, among other things,” the soldier went on. “And I remember her doing just this when one of the housecarls was injured during weapons training at the palace. He’d stepped the wrong way when he should have dodged, and an ax hacked a chunk of muscle from his leg. He bled badly and would have died for sure, but White Annis came and stopped the bleeding, then stitched his leg back together again.”

“Didn’t his wound get the green rot?” she asked, interested in this tale of weapons.

“No, My Lady, the witch kept it clean with some liquid, and he was healed. When it was completely better, he didn’t even limp.”

She nodded. The soldier was a veteran she’d known forever and she trusted his experience. “All right. Then stitch his arm,” she said to Oskan, as though he’d been trying to avoid doing it.

Thirrin watched as he washed his hands in more of the red wine. Then he took an oddly curved needle and, with a pair of tongs, held it in the flame of an oil lamp until it glowed red. Thirrin again wondered about his sanity, especially when he then quenched the needle in the salt and red wine.

“Your soldiers will have to hold him,” Oskan said. “I have no poppy.”

“Poppy!” Thirrin exploded again, unable to contain herself. “What have flowers got to do with it?”

The boy watched her anger mildly and said, “Poppy is a drug that would have deadened the pain. But I ran out of it a year ago.”

She looked at the veteran, who nodded reassuringly, but all comfort was lost when she saw Oskan threading the curved needle, then drawing it through a large clove of garlic.

“It helps to stop the green rot,” he explained.

She threw up her hands in despair. “Just get on with it. I don’t want to know any more.”