The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark (36 page)

Elemnestra had to admit that the little scholar sometimes had flashes of pure brilliance, but his quiet, studious nature was so alien to her fiery energetic temperament that she found it almost impossible to communicate with him. She was aware, though, that he and Olememnon had become great friends, and she often wondered what they found to talk about as they huddled for hours around the central hearth in the evenings.
Of course, she could have joined them to find out, but she was the Basilea, and she’d never demean herself by openly seeking the company of mere men.

She was suddenly aware that her consort had moved his horse and was waiting quietly for her to notice him.

“Well?” she said in tones of practiced indifference.

“Another messenger begs audience with the Basilea,” Olememnon answered, not at all offended by his wife’s curtness.

“Permission granted.”

He beckoned a soldier forward, and she dropped to one knee, waiting for the Basilea to give her leave to speak.

“What have you to tell?” Elemnestra asked.

“My Lady, the Queen has crossed the border into the Icemark. She and her party should be here before nightfall.”

“Good. And the allies the Queen brings with her, do you agree with the earlier estimate of three thousand?”

“Yes, My Lady. Their King himself leads his personal guard of one thousand, and there are two thousand volunteers from their militia.”

“Excellent. Olememnon, their horses will need the best stabling. Make sure everything’s ready.”

But before he could move to carry out her orders, the soldier coughed apologetically and said, “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but the allies have no horses —”

“Infantry, then! The first messenger was more drunk than I thought. Olememnon, raise his punishment to twenty lashes!” Once again the soldier coughed, and Elemnestra turned to her angrily. “Young woman, is there something wrong with your throat?”

“No, My Lady,” she almost whispered. “But I think you should know that our new allies are not infantry, either.”

“Then what are they?”

“Leopards, Ma’am.”

The Basilea gazed at her with icy blue eyes, then asked, “Have you seen these creatures yourself?”

“Yes, Ma’am. And I spoke to the second in command, Taradan. It was he who told me their exact numbers.”

“Spoke to the second in command; then they have humans working with them?”

“No, My Lady. Taradan is a leopard.”

“You spoke with a …?” Elemnestra’s voice trailed away, and she looked at her consort, who raised his shoulders slightly and remained silent. After a moment’s thought, she shook her head as though to clear it of all impossibilities and said, “Olememnon, set free the first messenger and give him an extra day’s pay. I could have been a little hasty.”

In the warmth of his rooms, Maggiore Totus sipped gently at his beaker of mulled wine. He’d already heard the dispatches telling of Thirrin’s return and had just completed his reports on the training and preparations he’d been responsible for in her absence. But unlike Basilea Elemnestra, he had no image to maintain or position he was desperate to keep, so he was altogether more relaxed in his outlook. His scholar’s mind ran over some of the wilder elements of the messenger’s reports. A few short weeks ago he would have dismissed them as pure fantasy, but since retreating to the north with the royal household, he’d not only witnessed, but actually conversed with, Wolffolk and Vampires. If such creatures of legend could exist, why not giant talking leopards? Being a true scientist, his mind remained completely open to all possibilities, and he decided to await events.

The wind rattled his shutters, and a gentle powdering of
snow tumbled to the floor, where it quickly melted. He’d almost grown used to the winters of the north, and he’d even learned to appreciate the sense of coziness a warm room gave when the world outside was locked in ice. He sighed contentedly and settled his spectoculums comfortably on the bridge of his nose before leafing through the papers on his desk. He hoped at some point in a more peaceful future to present Thirrin with his history of the Hypolitan people, which he’d been compiling with the help of Olememnon. After all, her mother had been a member of the Hypolitan aristocracy, so the heritage it recorded was as much hers as it was that of the Icemark itself.

But his history was still only in note form and there was a war waiting to be fought. No doubt it would be a long time before Thirrin would have time to sit down and read anything other than battle reports and casualty lists. He sighed and felt a familiar sadness creeping over him as he thought about the young Queen and her burdens.

But then a sudden knock on his door announced the arrival of his friend Olememnon, and his room was filled with a quiet energy as the huge man came in, stamping the snow off his boots and grinning apologetically at the little scholar, who clucked and fussed around him.

“Boots, boots, Olememnon! There now, you’ve got snow all over the floor and it’ll stand in puddles when it melts.”

“Well, call a servant to wipe it up. It’s what they’re for,” he said, his deep voice never needing to rise above its usual steady level.

“Yes, yes, I suppose I should. But they’re all so busy. I don’t like to bother them.”

“Then give me a cloth and I’ll do it.”

“Certainly not! Sit down and help yourself to wine.”

The Basilea’s consort settled into a chair by the central hearth and filled a beaker with wine that stood warming in the ashes. “So the Queen is on her way back at last.”

Maggiore paused in wiping up the now melted snow and looked at Olememnon over his shoulder. “Yes, and if the reports are to be believed, she’s in the company of giant white leopards.”

The Basilea’s consort nodded slowly. “It’s an odd one, eh? But I know both the messengers, and they’re usually reliable soldiers.”

The little scholar finished cleaning up the puddles and returned the mop to its proper place. “I’m keeping an open mind about this, Olememnon. Since coming to live in the Icemark I’ve seen too many legends walking around in the sunshine to dismiss anything as a fairy tale.”

His friend nodded, then waited until Maggiore had refilled his own beaker with mulled wine and sat down. “Your health, Maggie.”

“Likewise, Ollie.”

The two men drank deeply and sat in companionable silence for a few moments before Olememnon said, “I suppose you’ve read the reports coming in from the south?”

“Yes. An unusual man, this Scipio Bellorum. How many other generals campaign in the winter?”

“None that I know of. But he’s not having it all his own way. The besieged city of Inglesby still hasn’t fallen, and he lost almost an entire army when they tried to march along the Great Road.”

“That’s true. I can only presume the much-vaunted science of the Empire doesn’t include the discipline of meteorology, otherwise Bellorum would never have sent his troops marching off when a blizzard was imminent. How many survived?”

“The last werewolf report said less than a thousand made it back to their camp near the border.”

“We may have had a lucky escape. Their target must have been Frostmarris. If they reach the capital before we get back there, it’ll be a terrible psychological blow to our war effort.”

“Well, we can’t risk sending a garrison out yet. There’s still bad weather brewing south of the forest, and any troops caught out in the open will die, whether Icemark or Empire.”

“How long before it clears?”

“The White Witches who came in from the south last week figure another month at least. They say the forest and the region around Frostmarris is sitting under weather of its own making, something they’ve never seen before, but they obviously know enough about it to say it won’t move just yet.”

“Good,” Maggie said. “That gives us time to prepare a garrison for the capital.”

Thirrin and her party had been traveling south for more than a week. She felt disgustingly dirty and completely unkempt. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a clean change of clothes, and though she’d kept her hair neatly braided, she hated to think what sort of wildlife might be living in it. She looked at Oskan, hoping to gauge by his appearance exactly how disheveled she herself must look. But apart from a few ragged patches of adolescent facial hair, he looked annoyingly neat. Close-cropped hair and simple black clothes tend to be very forgiving, no matter how long they’re neglected.

She looked across to where Tharaman-Thar trotted at the head of his army of Snow Leopards. He was certainly a magnificent sight. All the giant cats were, and the only thing they needed to keep themselves scrupulously neat was a quick wash and wipe with the back of a paw. But despite her envy of their
beautifully groomed appearance, she felt a warm glow of excitement as she led them to join the army that would defend the Icemark. With such formidable allies, she at last felt that they had some small chance of driving the Polypontians back to their own lands — or failing that, perhaps maintaining an independent state in the north, beyond the Great Forest.

She turned in the sleigh to look along the line of leopards that marched in double file for as far as she could see. Their coats were so well camouflaged against the snow that it was impossible to be sure where the line ended. And now that they’d entered the latitudes where the sun briefly shone in winter, their coats shimmered and glowed with a subtle shading that astonished the eye. It seemed that the gods of winter had molded soldiers from the Icesheets and armed them with formidable ivory and claws of frozen steel.

Tharaman-Thar noticed her gaze and immediately glided over to walk beside the sleigh. “I smell strange scents, Thirrin-Thar, like none in the memory of my nose.”

“Describe them to me.”

“Flowing blood that isn’t blood. Sharp, like snow would smell if it were living. It clears the head and removes all thought of sleep.”

Thirrin looked puzzled, but Oskan said, “You smell tree sap, My Lord. The sharpness is that of pine forests. The-Land-of-the-Ghosts is deeply wooded and the winds have blown over miles of trees, less than a day’s march from here.”

“What are trees?”

“Growing things, plants taller than some hills. Unmoving and solid,” Oskan answered.

“Plants?” Tharaman-Thar said thoughtfully. “The only plants I know are the lichens that grow in the most southerly part of my lands in the summer months. But they barely rise
above the ground. How can I believe in these trees that grow taller than hills?”

“Only by seeing them, I suppose,” Oskan replied. “And that you’ll do in a few hours’ time.”

“Perhaps you ask too much of my ability to believe.”

“Perhaps. But didn’t human beings walk out of your legends, and don’t you now march south as an ally of a human Queen? Even a month ago, could you have believed in such things?”

“No,” Tharaman-Thar answered shortly. “And I’m not sure I believe in them even now. My dreams can be extraordinarily vivid.”

“Ah, but are we the stuff of nightmares?” Oskan asked with a grin.

The giant leopard regarded him with blazing amber eyes. “I’ve no doubt that some of you are, Oskan the Warlock. I can only be glad that you’re on our side.”

The sun set in the early afternoon, and they passed like an army of ghosts under the starry skies. No sound came from the leopards, and only the slender hiss of runners over snow-covered earth gave away the presence of Thirrin and Oskan’s sleigh. On the horizon a collection of tall shapes gathered, almost shocking the sight after days of slowly undulating Icesheets and snow-covered flats. Oskan waved to Tharaman-Thar, and the Leopard King glided over to walk beside the sleigh.

“Tell me what you can see on the horizon,” the warlock said.

“Tall, spreading bars of shape,” the leopard answered. “Like frost patterns on the polished surface of rock, but dark rather than white.”

Oskan nodded. “Those are trees,” he said simply. “The first trees growing on the very borders of their northern range. You
are about to enter the realms of human beings. Be prepared for cruelty and kindness, for friendship and hatred. People are made of all possibilities and conditions.”

“Warlock, your words are no comfort.”

“No. But they are a warning.”

When Thirrin and her party reached the trees, they stopped while the Snow Leopards gathered around them, sniffing their strange scent and staring up into their branches.

“Soon we’ll reach forests, huge gatherings of trees that stretch for miles,” Thirrin called out to the army of giant cats. “Many animals live there, some of them dangerous, but none that should present a problem to any of you. While we travel through the trees, you will be able to hunt, and soon after that we’ll enter the Icemark, where you’ll be fed from the herds of beasts that we farm on our lands. In the meantime we must cross The-Land-of-the-Ghosts. The rulers of this country, the Vampire King and Queen, are our allies, and we will not be threatened.”

“We hope,” Oskan said quietly.

“This is the final stage of our journey,” Thirrin continued, ignoring the remark. “Let us begin.”

Immediately the Snow Leopards formed into their double file, and they marched off into the night.