The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark (42 page)

After being rested for a few days, the refugees were sent north to the Hypolitan province away from the immediate danger of attack, and the defenders looked grimly to the south. The Wolffolk spies continued their relay of information and it made uncomfortable news. Polypontian troops were moving through the pass in massive numbers, and though the besieged cities and towns resisted fiercely, news was soon coming in of their capture, one by one.

This was the hardest part for Thirrin. She wanted to take her army and strike south at the invaders, but common sense told her that the only hope was to fight from their strong defensive position and wait for the allies to arrive. And that was another problem: Rumors were beginning to circulate among the soldiers that the werewolves and Vampires would never come, that their hatred for humans was too great and they would gladly watch the Icemark destroyed. Thirrin and Oskan did their best to quash this scare-mongering, pointing out the loyal white Wolffolk who were working as scouts and as part of the message relay. But it was no good; most thought they were just a decoy on the part of the Werewolf King, offered up as a sacrifice to the greater good of seeing the Icemark finally fall. If the defenders believed the allies really were on the way, they’d stand and fight more confidently and effectively.

But despite all of this pessimism, most of the army was resigned and even eager to fight. They wanted to do as much damage to the Polypontian war machine as they could. There was pride to be gained in bravely facing the best army the known world could field, and if they could bloody their noses, they’d be remembered long after the war was over.

Thirrin and her advisers came to the conclusion that this
attitude was the best they could hope for, and worked to stoke up a will for revenge that would add fury to the resistance. Elemnestra was particularly good at instilling bloodlust in the soldiers, leading out her squadrons of mounted archers in a display that had any spectators baying and cheering as though they were watching a race. Sweeping in at an angle, the archers would bear down on a line of target stakes driven into the earth, guiding their horses with their knees and shooting a hail of arrows as they came on. As they neared the targets they would gallop parallel to them, again loosing a devastating flight of arrows into the stakes as they thundered by. The squadron would then turn to sweep by from the opposite direction before galloping away, turning in their saddles to loose yet more arrows into the targets. This was how to stop the Polypontians! This was how to show them that the soil of the Icemark cost dear! Every soldier who watched the displays was set alight with a need to strike hard at the Empire and push it back through the mountain pass to its own lands.

But the regiment of Hypolitan women, under their commander Elemnestra, never once acknowledged the adoration they received from the soldiers who watched them. Whenever they returned to the city and trotted through the streets, their faces were always sternly set and they looked neither right nor left as they made their way to the citadel. These soldiers were the elite of the Hypolitan army. They had dedicated their lives to serving the Goddess in the military field, and as such only their commander, the Basilea of the province, was allowed to marry.

At least half of the Hypolitan army was made up of women, usually fighting alongside the men in mixed regiments or in companies twinned with male divisions that complemented
the others’ fighting skills. But it was the exclusively female squadrons of mounted archers that were considered the greatest of the great. They had kept alive the purity of the Hypolitan culture and lived as their people had first lived in the mountain strongholds of their long-ago home. They were proud and powerful, and their brightly embroidered uniform of pants, quilted jackets, and scarlet caps with cheek flaps had remained unchanged for hundreds of years. And as the housecarls of the Icemark watched them trot by, many could see the familiar features of their own Queen Thirrin in the stern young faces with their high cheekbones and ice-gray eyes.

But despite the dark elation the soldiers felt as they prepared for the coming clash, many still muttered that the allies would never come and that the Polypontian forces would overwhelm them. And as though to confirm the military prowess of their enemy, the refugees from the south continued to flood into Frostmarris with tales of cruelty and vast armies.

It was one particularly bright day of late spring when the last exiles staggered in. They’d come from Barrowby, the final city of the Southern Riding that had been holding out against Scipio Bellorum. Before the Imperial soldiers had driven the assault home, the governor of the city had opened a secret postern gate in the walls, and the civilians, along with an escort of housecarls, had crept out under cover of darkness. Even so, all would have gone badly if they hadn’t been picked up by a party of werewolf scouts and led to the safety of Frostmarris.

Thirrin had spent the morning with Oskan, interviewing the exiles and trying to gain every last detail about the Empire’s army. But they learned little that was new, and rode back from the refugees’ temporary encampment feeling disappointed and worried.

“Bellorum has control of the south now. His rear is secured, and he can march on us whenever he likes,” Thirrin said bitterly.

“Nothing different to worry about, then,” Oskan answered, determined to offset Thirrin’s glum mood by being as optimistic as he could.

“No, I suppose not. Just the usual impossible odds against a general who’s never been defeated, and a highly trained, hugely motivated army, against which we’re pitting a semi-trained militia. Nothing to worry about at all, really.”

Oskan suddenly kicked his legs in frustration, causing Jenny to hiccup in surprise. “Look, the housecarls and the Hypolitan are hardly ‘semi-trained militia,’ as you put it! The one set battle that’s been fought between the Empire and Icemark armies ended in a draw when your father wiped them out just after Yule. And the real half-trained militias defending the cities and the towns of the Southern Riding made such a fight of it, they’ve delayed Bellorum’s campaign by weeks! Just imagine what we can do with our trained army and new allies!”

Thirrin remained quiet as horse and mule walked slowly back toward Frostmarris. Finally she said, “I know you’re right. We’ve got at least half a chance. I just need a place to say what everybody else is saying. And you’re it, I’m afraid. And if you ever repeat anything you hear from me, I’ll personally cut out your tongue.”

She stopped and looked across the plain to the Great Road. “There’s another supply train arriving from the north. Come on, I’ll race you to it.”

Her warhorse thundered off, leaving Oskan standing, but then Jenny leaped forward, taking him by surprise, and galloped after them. The determined mule had almost caught
up with Thirrin and her charger when they reined to a halt at the road. Thirrin smiled at Oskan in approval, until she saw him grimly hanging on to Jenny’s mane with his eyes squeezed shut.

“I was going to congratulate you on your brilliant horsemanship, but I see all of the credit belongs to your mule.”

Jenny brayed loudly in acceptance of the compliment and started to graze on the carpet of wild spring flowers.

Thirrin acknowledged the salutes of the cavalry escort that led the supply train, and watched as it headed for Frostmarris. Then she noticed a small figure sitting in one of the wagons. “Maggie!” she called. “What are you doing here?”

She urged her horse forward and drew up alongside the vehicle, which seemed to be carrying a load of turnips for cattle feed. The old man smiled and waved. “What am I doing here? Well, I’m joining you in preparation for the arrival of the dreaded Scipio Bellorum. Any day now, judging by the werewolf reports.”

“And what exactly do you intend to do when he does arrive?”

“Observe, make notes, and prepare to write my history of the war. Somebody has to record the facts for posterity.”

“You’re convinced it won’t be a Polypontian scholar, then?”

“Quite convinced. The alliance will sweep the Empire from the land!”

“Maggie, I do believe you sound rather fierce,” said Oskan with a grin.

“I am fierce,” the old man replied with energy. “If I were twenty years younger, I’d be fighting alongside Olememnon and reveling in the glory!”

“There’s not much glory to be had in killing the young men and women of any country, Maggie, “ said Thirrin quietly as
she remembered the battle in the forest against the Empire’s cavalry.

“No,” Maggiore agreed. “But there are times when, perhaps, it’s best to pretend otherwise. Especially when war has already started, and the most successful and ruthless general ever known is intent on destroying your people and stealing your land.”

“You’re right, as usual, Maggie. I’m glad you’re with us,” said Thirrin.

They rode toward the city through a multicolored ocean of spring flowers, the lumbering wagons pitching and rolling over the ruts like flat-bottomed ships.

The next day, one of the last convoys from the north traveled down the Great Road. The engineers waiting to cut the ditches and embankments through its wide paved surface — and so finally close the defensive ring — watched in awe as it passed. Many of the workmen even bowed and called for blessings from the travelers, and some of the younger ones smiled and waved back at the engineers. These were the Witches of the Icemark, answering the call for help from Oskan the Warlock. At their head strode Wenlock Witchmother, still bent double over her staff, but moving along at a tremendous rate; with them lumbered wagons carrying the herbs, medicinal plants, and equipment for the healing part of their deep and intricate craft.

The witches arrived in the city to be greeted by streets lined with soldiers, who watched in silence as they passed. In many ways the arrival of the witches was the real final closing of the defense against the advancing enemy. Usually they were the Wise Women and Cunning Men who worked quietly in their communities, healing the sick and helping with blighted crops and barren animals. They performed the important
ceremonies of the turning year and acted as go-betweens who connected the physical and spiritual worlds. But the very fact that they’d been summoned all together somehow confirmed the terrible emergency they all faced.

One or two of the soldiers plucked up enough courage to step forward and present the prettiest and youngest witches with some hastily picked spring flowers, and in return they received brilliant smiles and kisses. But the overwhelming mood was somber. The witches had been called to help the wounded and dying that the coming war would bring, and many of the soldiers couldn’t help wondering if they themselves would soon be among their patients.

When they reached the citadel, Oskan was waiting to greet them with Thirrin and Tharaman-Thar. But Wenlock Witchmother seemed interested only in the presence of the warlock, and he soon led the party to their new quarters, a large stable block that had been scrubbed out and converted to an infirmary.

“I feel completely unneeded,” said Thirrin in irritable tones after they’d gone. “How many other Queens can expect to be ignored by their own people?”

“They are a little … self-contained, these witches, aren’t they?” Tharaman answered. “I got the impression that the Witchmother thought I was nothing more than an overgrown palace cat being allowed time off from mousing in the kitchens.”

“Thank the Goddess they’re better healers than diplomats. Come on, Tharaman, let’s go where we’re appreciated. I think the unit needs a good shakedown. A gallop over the plain will clear a few cobwebs, and the better we know the ground we’ll be fighting on, the greater our chances of success.”

Within half an hour the cavalry were making their way
through the city streets, troopers and leopards all singing the battle paean while Tharaman, Thirrin, and Taradan discussed tactics.

On reaching the plain and passing through the defenses, the Thar gave the order to charge and they thundered over the land, the leopards giving the strange coughing bark that was their battle cry. After more than two hours of charging, redressing their lines, wheeling, and breaking and reforming ranks, Thirrin and Tharaman felt their moods lighten. The witches might not consider them to be of any particular importance in the grand scheme of the Goddess’s plans, but their leopards and troopers adored them, and even the housecarls and Hypolitan army considered them their greatest military asset.

“Field Marshal Taradan!” the Thar called to his second in command, who in the quiet after the maneuvers was rolling luxuriantly in the color and fragrance of the spring flowers. “Is that really an example of proper military bearing to display before our warriors?”

Taradan immediately leaped to his feet. “No, My Lord! I’m sorry, My Lord!”

The Thar drew himself up to his full height and walked slowly along the line of leopards and mounted troopers, his amber eyes blazing. “Cavalry of the Icemark and the Icesheets. You will at all times follow the orders of your superior officers, human and leopard; you will unquestioningly act on their commands and do so willingly! Do you understand?”

“Yes, Lord Tharaman!” six thousand voices answered.

“Good! Then follow this order: Cavalry! Cavalry, play!” And with that he thundered away over the field of wildflowers, closely chased by Taradan. The rest of the leopards then
tumbled and rolled together while their Thar and field marshal wrestled and the human troopers laughed aloud at the sight.

Thirrin watched from her warhorse, completely unable to lower her guard enough to join in. The royal dignity of humans was less easily set aside, and she watched enviously as the Thar jumped around Taradan like a playful kitten. But then something drew her attention away from the leopards. A faint sound, mournful and ghostly, reached her ears. She sat upright. A werewolf message, and sent in daylight when the sound traveled less well. It must be incredibly urgent! Not only that, but all the other Wolffolk were out on patrol, so only Oskan could interpret it.

Drawing her sword, she stood in her stirrups and gave a shrill war cry that echoed over the field. Immediately silence fell, and the thin keening sound could be heard a little more clearly. “You!” she said, pointing to a leopard that stood nearby. “Go quickly back to the city and tell the Lord Oskan a message is coming in.”