Free Last Battle of the Icemark by Stuart Hill Page A

back into the listeners’ minds, and Kirimin shook her head. “That was horrible,” she said. “Sad and nasty at the same time.”
    Mekhmet shrugged. “It’s a traditional tale of the desert; fearsome places make fearsome stories. Would you have preferred it if I’d changed the ending to make it happier?”
    â€œWell, no,” she answered. “But don’t you know any nicer ones?”
    â€œThe dead who stay on the earth to make ghosts of their souls are often not happy to be here. Remember that if you see something tonight.”
    Kirimin shuddered, but didn’t comment.
    â€œCheer up, Kiri,” said Sharley. “Here’s some more puddings. That’ll keep you occupied for a while.”
    â€œI don’t know what you mean. Anyone would think I ate like a pig or something!”
    â€œNot at all,” said Sharley. “You just eat like a Tharaman.”
    As the evening wore on the celebrations, unlike all other parties and gatherings in the Great Hall, became quieter. The tables were drawn aside, and revellers gathered together in small knots to tell each other stories or read fortunes on the night when the veil between the natural and supernaturalworlds was at its thinnest. The musicians in their gallery seemed to be affected by the atmosphere too, and they began to play tunes in the minor keys that had a strangely brittle and disjointed quality.
    â€œThey sound just like I imagine skeletons walking in moonlight would look,” said Sharley, confusing nobody with his odd sentence.
    â€œYes, exactly,” said Kirimin, raising her muzzle from another bowl of suet pudding. “Especially if it was frosty.”
    Most of the torches around the hall had been allowed to burn out, and the huge space was lit by the central fire and by a few candles that burned in holders on some of the tables. Shadows leaped and danced up the walls, or were deformed by perspective into hideously twisted shapes, so that the hall seemed to be populated by a convocation of monsters.
    Even the guests on the top table were touched by the creepy atmosphere, and the conversation had dropped to a low buzz on the edge of hearing. Thirrin and Oskan sat quietly, holding each other’s hands under the table, while Cressida glared about as if daring anything even vaguely supernatural to show itself, but eventually even the Crown Princess’s vigilance began to wane and her eyes slowly closed. Krisafitsa shuddered gently as the wind moaned around the citadel and Maggiore snored, his hand still firmly grasping his half-full goblet of wine as he dreamed of spirits that stood over his bed, their mouths wide and silently screaming while the cold air of the grave billowed out of their jaws and pooled over his face.
    Only Tharaman-Thar and Grishmak seemed active, and they were reaching that stage of their eating duel when the very smell of food was nauseating.
    â€œWould you be prepared to negotiate a draw?” asked thewerewolf King, as the mouthful of meat he’d been chewing slipped greasily down his throat.
    â€œNot at all!” Tharaman replied, resolutely seizing a rack of ribs in his jaws. But then the gravy oozed over his tongue and he dropped the meat with a gentle shudder. “Oh, very well. I declare honours even.”
    â€œAgreed,” said Grishmak, and both contestants leaned forward slowly until their heads rested on the table and they slipped into a deep, ghost-haunted sleep.
    The night was at last coming to a close; even Sharley and Mekhmet were blinking owlishly at each other, and after a few moments they too had closed their eyes. In the main body of the hall the whisper and mutter of ghost stories still flowed over the shadows, but eventually these too ebbed away into near silence.
    Kirimin looked out over the dark space, unwilling to let the celebrations end. She watched with her excellent night vision as the shades and thick textured blacks of the