getting quite hungry.”
Thirrin glared at him. There were times when she was certain he made light of every occasion just to annoy her. But she controlled herself and nodded curtly.
By the time they were out on the plain again her mood had softened and she smiled. “I love Yuletide! I can’t wait for solstice morning, with all its singing and good things to eat. Tharaman will have arrived with Taradan, and he’ll have all sorts of tales about the Ice Troll Wars. And of course there’ll be presents; I particularly love the presents. What will you give me this year? It had better be good.”
“What could I give that you don’t already have?” Oskan asked. “It’s an impossible task. So I admitted defeat and got you a loaf of bread. It’s a cleverly symbolic gift, as bread represents life, and you’re nothing if not lively.”
“Why, Oskan, how sweet,” she teased in return. “Does that mean you’ll be with me for life?”
But the warlock had fallen silent, and his eyes stared into the middle distance as though he could see things beyond human sight. Thirrin knew the signs and held her breath. He was about to prophesy.
“Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Wildcat of the North, Taker of the Hand of Bellorum …” His voice was strangely hollow and his breath rattled in his throat. “You ask the Old Ones about your servant Oskan the Warlock. Will he be with you for life?”
“Yes, yes!” Thirrin urged breathlessly.
“The Old Ones answer you thus … You’ll just have to bloody well wait and see,” he said, and grinned so wickedly that she cuffed him around the head.
But then a howling sounded on the frozen air and they all stopped to listen. The werewolf escort answered in a tumble of voices and then trotted on.
“Well?” Thirrin demanded.
“Tharaman-Thar and his escort have just crossed the northern border. They’ll be here tomorrow night,” Oskan explained.
She nodded and smiled contentedly. This was going to be a wonderful Yule. “Do you know what?”
“What?”
“The last one back has a face like Jenny’s arse,” she said, and galloped away toward Frostmarris with Oskan, werewolves, and cavalry escort following in wild pursuit.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to acknowledge the support and help of my work colleagues: Lesley, Jackie, Jon (big and small), Amy, Matt, The Stoat, Sonia, Mariam, Monica, Dipesh, Andrea, Andrew, Steve, and all of the Saturday and Sunday plebs. Also to Trace (the manager and bazooka specialist), as well as Louse, second-in-command and collector of hoofcoverings.
Family and friends who are as excited as I am can’t be left out, either, and Nigel must get a mention for many years of past listening without getting too impatient!
I must also thank The Chicken House for being brave enough to publish my books. Particular thanks to Barry, Imogen, Rachel, and Esther, but also to those nice people who pick up the phone and say “Is that Stuart?” before I even have a chance to get beyond the opening remarks. It must be the accent or the neurotic way I gabble!
Finally, my heartfelt thanks go to Margaret York, writer, teacher, actress, and complete inspiration; when reading King Solomon’s Mines, you gave a voice to Gagool I’ve never forgotten — I’m sure Rider Haggard would have approved!
SPECIAL SNEAK PREVIEW OF
BLADE OF FIRE
THE SECOND BOOK
IN THE
ICEMARK
CHRONICLES
Coming in Spring 2007!
SEVENTEEN YEARS HAVE PASSED. Somewhere on the snowy borders of the Empire, just out of sight of werewolf scouts, Scipio Bellorum is planning his revenge. Soon he will hit the Kingdom of Icemark with a ferocity never before witnessed by Thirrin and her allies: for this time he has his cruel, uncontrollable sons with him, and a mighty fleet of “sky ships” at his command.
Meanwhile, in the Icemark, Thirrin and Oskan are returning victorious from a war with the Ice Trolls. Eagerly awaiting their arrival is their youngest child, Charlemagne (“Sharley”). Little does he suspect the fateful role he will play in the struggle to come….
Out in the garden, Charlemagne stopped in his tracks and listened. He understood the language of the Wolffolk as well as human speech, having played with the palace werewolf guards since before he could crawl. He suddenly grinned as the final, drawn-out syllables became clear. His mom and dad, Thirrin and Oskan, would be home within a few hours. Giving a yelp of joy, he leaped into the air despite his withered leg and hurried back into the palace.
Watching him, Maggiore Totus rapped on the window with his stick, but Charlemagne didn’t hear. The old scholar