The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark (45 page)

The Polypontian officer raised his sword again and the advance continued, the massively tall spears of the pikemen lowering into the engage position, the brightly honed metal heads glittering viciously in the spring sunshine. Then the enemy’s commander threw back his head and gave a great shout, his soldiers yelled in reply, and they charged.

Thirrin’s voice also rose above the din. In reply, drummer boys and girls all along the defenses rattled out their own fighting rhythm. Tharaman-Thar reared and roared, and his warriors answered, sending out a great wall of animal noise. Then the enemy was upon them.

For the briefest moment the Polypontian line wavered as the soldiers realized that the Snow Leopards were fighting alongside the human defenders. But then the Empire officers raised their swords and strode forward to meet the new threat, drawing the ranks of the army with them. Polypontian soldiers had fought before this against beasts with tusks and trunks that stood as high as houses. Fighting leopards were just one more wonder to add to their experience.

The housecarls locked their shields, and the crescendo of onset rolled out over the plain. Thirrin strode forward, her sword swinging in huge shattering arcs, and the Thar struck out again and again with his massive claws. Longbows and the compound bows of Elemnestra’s regiment continued to rain devastation down on the enemy, while Olememnon and his infantry hacked and chopped at the enemy front with their axes. Some of the braver defenders forced their way through the menacing barrier of pikes to hack at the soldiers wielding them.

For fully half an hour the struggle continued with neither side giving ground, but then the massive numbers of the Empire’s army began to tell, and slowly the defenders were pushed back. Step by step, they were borne irresistibly down into the ditch of the first embankment, then slowly up the slope of the second. For an hour the defenders held the ridge of the second embankment, but once again the sheer weight of numbers began to tell and they were forced back, contesting every foot of ground. Desperately Thirrin called out orders to hold, but still the enemy came on, hacking and killing as they advanced.

Then she suddenly grabbed at Tharaman’s dense fur and climbed onto his shoulders, and holding her sword aloft she gave the war cry of the House of Strong-in-the-Arm, her voice as high and fierce as a hunting hawk’s: “Blood! Blast! And Fire! Blood! Blast! And Fire! Hold them, soldiers of the Icemark! Hold them, Host of the Hypolitan! Hold them, Leopards of the Icesheets and White Wolffolk of King Grishmak! Blood! Blast! And Fire!”

Her voice rose high and pure above the raging din of the battle, and immediately her soldiers drove their feet deep into the ground beneath them, locked their shields, and refused to give another inch. The Thar and his warrior-leopards roared out a ferocious challenge and smote all before them with terrible savagery, and the werewolves howled in a bloodcurdling chorus as they smashed at the lines of spears before them. Gradually, with a barely noticeable movement forward, the line started to straighten. Slowly, slowly, the soldiers of the Icemark and the Hypolitan redressed their position, while the youngsters on the drums beat out a relentless rhythm, sweat streaming down their faces. The banners of the housecarls slowly inched
forward as over and over they bawled out a fighting chant: “Thirrin-Thar, Thirrin-Thar, Thirrin-Thar.”

Beneath their feet the ground was slick with blood. Several housecarls fell, to be hacked where they lay, but the tide was slowly turning and the experienced warriors of the Red Army were being pushed back. Thirrin continued to fight from the Thar’s shoulders, hacking and chopping at the enemy as he struck out with the devastating power of his paws or dropped forward to use his enormous teeth.

After another hour of fighting, the allies regained the crest of the first embankment. Before them the enemy still swarmed and still pushed on, singing their war anthems. But their numbers were much reduced. Out on the plain, the supporting Black Army seemed to be preparing to join in, but they didn’t move forward, and now that the Hypolitan archers had a clear firing platform, they began again to rain arrows down on the Empire’s troops. The enemy was taking terrible losses, but still they came on, until finally their commanding officer raised his sword and they started to withdraw in good order.

The archers, and now the ballistas and rockapults, continued to bombard them, and when the defenders turned their attention to the Black Army, the enemy finally conceded the field and retreated, their drums and fife still playing bravely.

Thirrin climbed slowly down from Tharaman’s shoulders and hugged him in relief and elation as they watched the enemy march back to their camp. But when she looked out at the dead and dying, tears ran down her face. “We can’t take losses like that again, Tharaman.”

“Neither can they, my dear. Neither can they,” he answered wearily, cleaning the blood from his huge paws. “And I can assure you they won’t risk it again, either. If they’re anything
like the Ice Trolls, they would have expected us to fold under the ferocity of their first attack, and as we didn’t, they’ll show us much more respect in the future. From now on, General Bellorum will show prudence and no doubt display some of his brilliant tactical skills.”

“Then we’d better be ready for him, Tharaman.”

Scipio Bellorum followed the progress of the battle through his telescopic monocular. He was still seething with anger about the destruction of his cannon by what Commander Aurelius had called “primitive artillery,” but he was sure he would be revenged by a swift victory for his Red Army. He could clearly see his troops advancing in their usual overwhelming surge, and he could also see the young Queen standing among her troops on the first embankment. This surprised him at first, but then he remembered he was dealing with a barbaric race of people who expected their leaders to stand with them in battle. He was also amazed to see quite so many of the reported giant leopards, as well as one or two other creatures that looked like hideously deformed bears, standing among the defenders, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe they would fight. And if the barbaric Queen really thought that troops of the Empire could be intimidated by wild animals, then she had a shocking lesson to learn.

The roar of onset reached his ears a second after he saw it happen through his monocular. And immediately he was forced to revise his belief that the animals wouldn’t fight.

“How absolutely marvelous,” he said aloud. “What a wonderful addition they will be to the Imperial army.”

For the next three hours he watched the battle, impatient for his troops to deliver the knockout blow that would send the defenders streaming back to their city. But it never happened.
He was about to give the order to send in the Black Army, the towering elite of his entire force, but something stopped him. As he watched the defenders forcing his troops back down onto the plain, he had the sudden premonition that if he committed his support units, they, too, would be defeated, and such a loss would be too much for his men’s morale. Better by far to withdraw and prepare for battle the next day. He considered himself a patient man, and he was quite prepared to whittle away at the Icemark’s strength until they were ripe for the final blow. He gave the order to pull back, his face a careful mask of unconcern.

He almost believed himself, but not quite. A niggling doubt on the very edge of his conscious mind continued to annoy him even as he mounted his horse and prepared to meet his soldiers as they returned from the field. His officers followed at a respectful distance, their faces as blank as Bellorum’s. Wounded soldiers were being ferried to the hospital tents while their comrades were paraded before the dreaded figure of their general. A near-perfect hush descended on them; only the ragged breathing of exhausted men challenged the fearful quiet.

“Soldiers of the Empire, you fought well against a determined and, may I add, desperate enemy,” said Bellorum in a voice that was warm and encouraging. “However, you were led by incompetents, with little martial spirit and no flair for leadership. Commander Aurelius, step forward.”

The officer stepped out into the enormous silence and stood to attention.

“Explain your actions.”

Aurelius looked up at the general as a sudden gust of wind brought the scent of crushed wildflowers into his nostrils. Breathing deeply he relaxed, amazingly, and said clearly, “I
lost a battle against superb soldiers and an army of giant leopards.”

“Have you nothing more to add?” Bellorum asked in dangerously quiet tones.

Aurelius had heard the general interrogating others who had failed in battle, and he knew exactly the tone that would condemn a man to the firing squad. He heard it now. Realizing he no longer needed caution, he spoke his mind. “I lost a battle for the first time in my career, but I feel no shame. The soldiers of the Icemark are worthy opponents who outfought one of our strongest armies. I fully understand that I will suffer the supreme penalty for failure, but I would caution the general: If you continue to execute your experienced officers, you will soon have none to lead your men or carry out your orders.” A gasp rose up from the ranks of tired soldiers. None had ever spoken to the general in this way before. “I would also add that I truly believe that if the general himself had led the attack, the result would have been the same. And, I would respectfully inquire, who then would be the executioner?”

The silence that followed was so complete that the movement of troops on the defenses around Frostmarris could clearly be heard.

At last, Bellorum spoke.

“You’re a brave man, Commander Aurelius, and because of this your family will receive the full rewards and rights of the fallen veteran, and your execution will be swift.”

Then Scipio drew the pistols from the holsters on his saddle and shot him.

T
he noise was dreadful. Wounded soldiers were screaming, and witches shouting to one another so that they could be heard. But worse still was the smell: blood and body parts not meant to be exposed to the light of day, and over even that, urine and feces as soldiers lost control of their functions in the face of unimaginable pain and fear. Oskan helped one of the healers to stop a severed artery in a soldier’s leg from spurting its precious contents all over the floor. Nearby, a young drummer boy with a dreadful stomach wound, inflicted by a spear, managed to smile as the poppy mixture one of the witches had given him started to work. Later, Oskan helped her to mix enough to keep him unconscious until he died.

There were wounded leopards and werewolves, too, their huge bodies needing many new calculations for drug and potion doses as the healers stitched and cleaned their wounds or helped them to the Goddess’s peace.

Wenlock Witchmother stood in the middle of the stable ward watching all around her, giving strength to her people as they fought to save as many lives as they could. Meanwhile, out in the smaller side wards where the surgeons worked,
impossibly damaged limbs were amputated with incredible speed as the rough morphine of poppy kept the pain and shock at bay. Blood was everywhere, swimming across the floors, spurting over the walls and even the ceilings in bright crimson swathes. Yet in all this chaos, lives were being saved, and those beyond treatment were helped to peace with the herbs and drugs the witches had prepared.

For more than ten hours the witches, warlocks, and the few doctors considered skilled enough to help labored to reconstruct the bodies and lives that had been shattered by their first engagement with the Polypontians. But at last all that could be done was finished, and a peace descended on the wards. The wounded lay on clean mattresses along the walls, under the watchful eyes of healers who walked quietly around, while out in the treatment areas, teams of cleaners started to scrub away the blood and filth in readiness for those who would inevitably follow.

Finally Oskan left, taking his leave from a quiet Wenlock, who merely nodded when he said good-bye and told her he’d be back the next day. He almost ran from the converted stable block that was the infirmary and out across the yard of the citadel.

Outside, the area was full of jubilant housecarls, leopards, and other soldiers who were busy celebrating the victory. Campfires were dotted at regular intervals across the cobblestones, and Oskan had to dodge from one group to the next, all of whom wanted to tell him about the battle. But at last he reached the doors of the Great Hall and was admitted by the housecarl guards. Oskan already knew that Thirrin and Tharaman were safe, but he still wanted to see them and talk with them, so he hurried across the wide flagstones of the hall
and quickly dodged around the throne and through the door into the royal private rooms. Inside, Thirrin was sitting quietly with Primplepuss on her lap, while Tharaman lay sprawled in front of the fire like a huge lumpy hearthrug. Maggiore Totus was busily scribbling away at his notes, adding more to his history of the war and straining to make himself heard as he tried to question Thirrin over the cavernous snores and grunts of the sleeping Tharaman.