The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark (22 page)

T
he wide square in front of the Basilea’s palace was lined with people. In the center a pyre had been built using thick stakes of oak, layered level on level so that it soared into the sky like a wooden pyramid. Soldiers were pouring oil and other flammable liquids over the already fuel-drenched wood, and draping the battle colors of the Icemark over two platforms that had been constructed at the top. One was set a yard or so below the other and had Baroness Theowin’s striking hawk insignia placed before it, while the topmost one had been dressed with Redrought’s personal device of the fighting bear.

The sky was a heavy, dark presence threatening more snow, and a bitter wind scythed through the silent ranks of people, causing them to draw their winter cloaks tighter about themselves. In front of the masses stood ranks of housecarls, their armor glittering redly in the light of the torches that each soldier held, and from the buildings that faced the square, long banners of mourning snapped and fluttered in the wind, their deep purple almost black against the brilliance of the snow.

The people had been waiting for more than an hour now, and despite the freezing cold they gave no impression of impatience.
All of them were aware that they were about to witness one of the most important events in the history of the Icemark. A great warrior-king and his loyal vassal were to be cremated in as spectacular a ceremony as the heir to the throne could muster, considering the circumstances of war and invasion.

In more normal times the dead monarch would have been cremated on the plain before the city of Frostmarris, and once the flames had died, a mound would have been raised over the ashes. But Princess Thirrin had decreed that the ashes of her father, mixed with those of the Lady Theowin, would be gathered in an urn and no burial mound raised until she had returned to the capital at the head of a liberating army.

A slow drift of snow began to fall, settling on the huge pile of wood in the center of the square and adding fresh layers to the frozen and impacted ice that coated every surface. Oskan Witch’s Son had said there would be a light sprinkling but nothing that would interrupt the funeral, so the people put up their hoods and simply hunched their shoulders against the weather.

Suddenly a fanfare of deep-toned horns rang out, and the housecarls snapped to attention. A murmuring buzz ran through the crowds, and every head craned to see along the main road that led to the citadel. In the distance the gates of the fortress slowly opened, and a long procession filed out. Those citizens at the back where the road entered the square now had the advantage, because they could plainly see the Princess Thirrin in full armor, marching at the head of an escort of housecarls and warriors of the Hypolitan. Beside her walked the Basilea, and just behind them came the witch’s son and Maggiore Totus. The soldiers marched in a square formation surrounding a wide bier that was being carried on the broad shoulders of ten werewolves.

A collective gasp rose up from the people at the sight of the Wolffolk marching with the soldiers. Until Thirrin’s alliance with King Grishmak they’d been the sworn enemies of the Icemark, and most citizens still found their presence within the walls of a city frightening and strange. But as the crowd watched the approach of the procession, the huge creatures kept perfect step with the escorting soldiers, and the sense of their restrained ferocity added a dignity to the funeral beyond that of even the most disciplined troops.

A silence descended, broken only by the slow rhythmic tramp of marching feet. None of the citizens wept. Redrought had been a good King, as far as that affected the lives of the people. He’d demanded no new taxes; he’d threatened no new tithes; and his appetites and interests hadn’t put any extra burdens on the society of the Icemark. What’s more, he’d died doing his job, trying to defend the country from invaders. That was something he’d been good at.

But to most of the citizens the King was a remote figure, and it was hard to relate to his death in a directly emotional way. They were more interested in the practicalities of his successor. Would Thirrin be able to defend the country, and therefore their lives, from the invading Polypontians? So far she’d done well, carrying out the evacuation of Frostmarris with skill and control, and then defeating the enemy cavalry that had pursued them. She’d also shown an amazing ability to form alliances with the most unlikely … people.

In many ways the ordinary citizens found it easier to accept the idea of an alliance with the Wolffolk and with the Oak King and Holly King than the ruling aristocracy did. They were realists who were happy to accept any friendship that would save their skins. Only those who knew that one season’s harvest stood between them and famine truly understood that
yesterday’s sworn enemy can be working beside you in the field the next day. Only fools skirmish in their backyard when war is knocking down their front door.

In the meantime they watched the slow advance of the funeral cortege. Not only was it free entertainment in the dark days of the winter but it gave the people a chance to gauge the morale of the ruling elite. If they looked worried, the people had every right to be terrified.

The procession tramped slowly into the square before marching a complete circuit of its perimeter. Thirrin’s face was set in rigid lines, and both Oskan and Elemnestra, the Basilea of the Hypolitan, seemed preoccupied by other matters. Only Maggiore’s scholarly curiosity caused his eyes to dart from one interesting sight to another as he observed the fascinating funeral customs of the country. The people of the Icemark collectively relaxed. There were no signs of anxiety anywhere on the part of the ruling elite.

As the bier passed close to the crowds, many heads craned to see the bodies of King Redrought and the Lady Theowin. The snow the Wolffolk had packed around them had perfectly preserved them, and they both looked suitably stern and warriorlike. The fact that they also looked as though they were sleeping added further to the emotional distance that the people felt, and a strange carnival atmosphere developed as the crowds began to applaud. Thirrin’s composure slipped for a moment, and she looked at the crowds sharply, but then her expression relaxed. Her father would have probably preferred clapping and cheering to weeping. It was, after all, a sign of appreciation.

The procession then approached the pyre, and the escort of soldiers stamped to a halt, allowing the werewolf pallbearers to march forward and slowly climb the stairway that had been
built into the huge stack of wood. The crowd now fell silent as the creatures placed the bodies of King and vassal onto their respective platforms and draped them with their personal banners. As they withdrew, the housecarls began to tap sword hilt and ax haft on their shields. Gently and slowly the sound grew and swelled, rolling around the square as it rose to a massive crescendo that echoed back from the lowering clouds and stone buildings. Then slowly it died away to silence as the Wolffolk resumed their positions among the soldiers.

Thirrin had prepared no speech and had called on no others to speak. In her silence lay her grief. In the lack of speech and oration lay the country’s loss. Quietly she stepped forward and, without turning, held out her hand. The Basilea joined her and gave her a compound bow of the Hypolitan and a single arrow, the end of which had been wrapped with pitch-soaked linen. Thirrin fitted arrow to string and drew it back. She nodded, and the Basilea lit the linen-covered head and withdrew. The Princess raised the bow high and loosed the flaming arrow, and it streaked like a tiny comet against the background gray of the heavy clouds.

The crowds followed its course as it arced skyward and then fell in a graceful parabola to land deep in the piled stakes of the pyre. Immediately a small flame licked about the fuel-drenched wood and began to grow. The Basilea now gave a signal, and the female soldiers of the Hypolitan all raised their bows and loosed a rain of flaming arrows onto the pyre. After this the housecarls rushed forward and threw in the blazing torches they’d been carrying, and the pyre erupted into a huge ball of fire that sent a blast of heat against the crowds.

The housecarls resumed their positions and stood watching as the fire settled down to a steady blaze. Now the Wolffolk threw back their heads and began the eerie and mournful
howling of their kind, the notes rising up through the octaves and then slowly descending to a silence.

Thirrin watched as the flames roared up to a great height, illuminating the gray and white winter city with golds and fierce reds. She tried to keep her mind clear as the incredible heat slowly unmade the body of the man who’d been her teacher and guide from the time of her earliest memories. She tried to believe that she was watching the honorable funeral rites of a man who was no more important to her than any other great warrior. But the image of a hugely bearded, laughing face kept forcing its way into her mind’s eye. His bluff and gruff kindness had comforted her through many of her childhood hurts and disappointments, but it was the memory of his ridiculous fluffy slippers that finally made her weep.

The sight of the stern young warrior-maiden with tears rolling down her rigid cheeks was an image that many of the people in the watching crowds would remember most about the funeral of Redrought Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Bear of the North, King of the Icemark.

The council chamber was surprisingly only half full, considering the importance of the meeting that Thirrin had called. At the table there was only the Basilea, the ten members of the ruling council, and five commanders, while Thirrin’s contingent included herself, Oskan, Maggiore Totus, and all of the officers who had marched north with her.

The new Queen of the Icemark was still getting used to the idea of full command and power, and she’d been arguing with her aunt the Basilea for almost half an hour before the meeting had even properly begun.

“I will have
all
my commanders here at the council, including those of the Hypolitan army!” Thirrin said icily. “Not just
those that Hypolitan tradition allows.” And she clasped her hands behind her back in an attempt to stop them from shaking.

Basilea Elemnestra held her niece’s angry gaze for a moment and then said with quiet venom, “But our men are not trained to take part in meetings such as this!”

“Men have positions of command in your army, don’t they?”

“Yes. And anything they need to know will be conveyed by their immediate superiors.”

Thirrin kept her voice low and measured. The slightest waver would show just how scared she was of her formidable aunt. “So they receive all news and plans at secondhand and are robbed of all immediacy. It’s not good enough, Basilea. I want my orders to be heard directly, not conveyed by someone else who may not give the precise emphasis and weight that I want.”

“It’s not possible for all officers to be at every conference and council. Some commanders will always receive information at secondhand,” the Basilea argued.

“True. That cannot be helped in armies of any great size. But you want to bar at least ten middle-ranking commanders who could easily be at this briefing simply because they’re men, and I will
not
have it. It’s unjust, ridiculously old-fashioned, and most important it is an inefficient way to conduct military business. Do you really think that General Scipio Bellorum would allow such hidebound traditions to compromise the workings of his war machine?”

“Bellorum is a murderous barbarian; I couldn’t possibly say how he would act.”

Thirrin took a deep, steadying breath. She was determined to at least look as though the Basilea didn’t worry her. “He is the most successful general the known world has ever seen! He
took a huge and cumbersome military monster and turned it into a deadly efficient fighting force within five years. And in the last ten years of his command he’s added three countries and five new provinces to the Polypontian Empire. If we’re not to become the fourth sovereign state to be turned into just another administrative area within his Imperial ambitions, we’d better learn to think and act like him. And that means efficiency, and the ability to recognize when the worst enemy we have is ourselves! Now, as Queen of the Icemark I order you to send for your commanders or I will invoke the power of my office and have you replaced by a Basilea who sees sense — aunt or not!”

Maggiore Totus watched his former pupil with a delighted satisfaction he was beginning to expect. Thirrin had already surprised him several times since the war had begun, by showing an accelerating ability to cope with situations that were beyond anything she’d experienced before. However, he thought to himself, this was a very delicate situation. She couldn’t afford to alienate any part of society in this time of extreme crisis, and how she resolved this conflict could affect the outcome of the war.

The Basilea sat in silence for a moment, obviously weighing the content of her niece’s threat. At last she nodded, spoke to a guard, and sent her off to fetch the male commanders.