to help you.”
“What do you mean?” General Romanoff asked warily. “Why won’t the werewolves help us?”
“Because we have to choose a new King, and to do that we must return to our ancestral homes high in the mountains. It’ll be weeks before we’re ready to take to the field of battle again.”
Romanoff sighed, but then straightened her shoulders and looked unwaveringly at the Vampire King and Queen.“After your disastrous decision to send the werewolves to attack Frostmarris before we’d defeated the Hypolitan, Your Vampiric Majesties, perhaps now you will accept my strategic advice. Before we can face this Redrought our rear must be secured. We must take the Hypolitan before he’s ready to launch a counter-offensive, and without the werewolf infantry we must send to The-Land-of-the-Ghosts for reinforcements. We need the strength and power of the Rock Trolls. To do anything else will only mean our ultimate defeat.”
“Rock Trolls!” Her Vampiric Majesty almost squeaked. “But they’re completely unreliable . . . unsteady. They just can’t be trusted.”
“The werewolf infantry must be replaced,” Romanoff pointed out. “Rock Trolls are virtually unstoppable once they begin an attack.”
“But no one can control them . . .”
“ I will control them, Ma’am,” the general replied with a quiet arrogance that was belied by her continuing twitch.
The Vampire King took his Queen’s hand, deeply regretting Romanoff’s ill breeding. How very common it was to point out that Their Vampiric Majesties had insisted that the attack on Frostmarris was carried out even before the Hypolitan fell. There was an element of gloating to be heard in her tone, even at this time of such national emergency. Her Vampiric Majesty caught his eye and a moment of perfect understanding and agreement flashed between them, before the King turned to look at the general.
“Very well, Romanoff. You have full command of the Vampire army,” the King said. “But remember, both the Queen and I will be watching you closely and noting every success,twitch . . . and failure.”
The general bowed and clicked her heels; a note of theatricality that had both of the monstrous monarchs raising their eyes to a heaven they hated.
K ahin was sure the cat was attracting flies. If she’d had her way she’d have banished the animal to a stable days ago. But the witches looking after Redrought said the two were “linked in their healing” and that if the unconscious Cadwalader was removed then the King’s recovery could be compromised. Kahin had no answer to that – she was a businesswoman, and lately Royal Adviser, not a healer – and so she’d had to accept what they said.
She watched as Grimswald fussed around the unconscious boy, the old body-servant’s face a mask of fear and compassion for his master. Kahin allowed her thoughts to travel back over the last few days to when Redrought had been carried back from the battle in the Great Forest. At first she’dthought he was dead and surprised herself by feeling a terrible grief for the boy-King who wasn’t even of her faith or her race. And the deep sense of relief she’d then felt when told that he was simply unconscious had surprised her again. What was it about this uncouth, loud, boisterous youth that had raised in her such feelings of deep maternal love?
He was nothing like her own quiet, intelligent and studious sons and daughters. In fact he was the complete opposite; a great hulking giant of a boy with red hair, of all things, and a laugh that could shatter rock at fifty paces. But whatever it was, she couldn’t deny it. She felt the same for him as she had for her first-born, Kyros, who had died of a fever when only ten years old.
She sighed and straightened the blankets that covered his sleeping form, and watched as Grimswald then pointedly rearranged them.
“When is he expected to regain consciousness?” she asked him.
“Wenlock Witchmother said he
“What do you mean?” General Romanoff asked warily. “Why won’t the werewolves help us?”
“Because we have to choose a new King, and to do that we must return to our ancestral homes high in the mountains. It’ll be weeks before we’re ready to take to the field of battle again.”
Romanoff sighed, but then straightened her shoulders and looked unwaveringly at the Vampire King and Queen.“After your disastrous decision to send the werewolves to attack Frostmarris before we’d defeated the Hypolitan, Your Vampiric Majesties, perhaps now you will accept my strategic advice. Before we can face this Redrought our rear must be secured. We must take the Hypolitan before he’s ready to launch a counter-offensive, and without the werewolf infantry we must send to The-Land-of-the-Ghosts for reinforcements. We need the strength and power of the Rock Trolls. To do anything else will only mean our ultimate defeat.”
“Rock Trolls!” Her Vampiric Majesty almost squeaked. “But they’re completely unreliable . . . unsteady. They just can’t be trusted.”
“The werewolf infantry must be replaced,” Romanoff pointed out. “Rock Trolls are virtually unstoppable once they begin an attack.”
“But no one can control them . . .”
“ I will control them, Ma’am,” the general replied with a quiet arrogance that was belied by her continuing twitch.
The Vampire King took his Queen’s hand, deeply regretting Romanoff’s ill breeding. How very common it was to point out that Their Vampiric Majesties had insisted that the attack on Frostmarris was carried out even before the Hypolitan fell. There was an element of gloating to be heard in her tone, even at this time of such national emergency. Her Vampiric Majesty caught his eye and a moment of perfect understanding and agreement flashed between them, before the King turned to look at the general.
“Very well, Romanoff. You have full command of the Vampire army,” the King said. “But remember, both the Queen and I will be watching you closely and noting every success,twitch . . . and failure.”
The general bowed and clicked her heels; a note of theatricality that had both of the monstrous monarchs raising their eyes to a heaven they hated.
K ahin was sure the cat was attracting flies. If she’d had her way she’d have banished the animal to a stable days ago. But the witches looking after Redrought said the two were “linked in their healing” and that if the unconscious Cadwalader was removed then the King’s recovery could be compromised. Kahin had no answer to that – she was a businesswoman, and lately Royal Adviser, not a healer – and so she’d had to accept what they said.
She watched as Grimswald fussed around the unconscious boy, the old body-servant’s face a mask of fear and compassion for his master. Kahin allowed her thoughts to travel back over the last few days to when Redrought had been carried back from the battle in the Great Forest. At first she’dthought he was dead and surprised herself by feeling a terrible grief for the boy-King who wasn’t even of her faith or her race. And the deep sense of relief she’d then felt when told that he was simply unconscious had surprised her again. What was it about this uncouth, loud, boisterous youth that had raised in her such feelings of deep maternal love?
He was nothing like her own quiet, intelligent and studious sons and daughters. In fact he was the complete opposite; a great hulking giant of a boy with red hair, of all things, and a laugh that could shatter rock at fifty paces. But whatever it was, she couldn’t deny it. She felt the same for him as she had for her first-born, Kyros, who had died of a fever when only ten years old.
She sighed and straightened the blankets that covered his sleeping form, and watched as Grimswald then pointedly rearranged them.
“When is he expected to regain consciousness?” she asked him.
“Wenlock Witchmother said he
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