The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark (48 page)

Thirrin almost walked away, leaving him to whatever peace he could find, but he stirred and opened his eyes. He smiled in greeting, the expression making the grief and sadness in his eyes all the more obvious.

“Hello, Uncle Ollie,” she said quietly. “Can I join you?”

In answer, he moved along the bench and patted the space
next to him. She sat and, closing her eyes, she raised her face to the sun. “I don’t know what to say, Uncle Ollie. I’m only a girl, I don’t know what it’s like to lose someone you’ve chosen to love rather than someone you’re born to love, like a father or mother.” She opened her eyes and looked at him. “But when Dad died, I felt I’d been robbed of time … robbed of the times we would have had together.”

Olememnon took her hand and squeezed it gently.

“And there are others … particularly one other, whom I don’t think I could go on without,” she continued. “I mean, I suppose the world, my world, would go on, but if he were killed, I don’t quite know how it could.”

“It doesn’t seem possible,” Olememnon answered at last, his low voice quietly mingling with the drone of the bees. “Even the light seems darker.”

“I sometimes think it’s too much of a risk to rely on someone else so much for your happiness,” Thirrin went on. “But without sharing at least some of your life, everything else seems less worthwhile, less
valuable
somehow.”

“The risk is worth it, Thirrin. Even when fate calls your bluff and you lose them, the risk’s worth it.”

Thirrin nodded, as though he’d just confirmed what she suspected. Then she said, “I can’t say anything to help, of course. Nothing at all, but I need you, Uncle. I can’t do this on my own. Come back to us and lead the Hypolitan infantry, at least until the new Basilea gets used to her role.”

She almost gasped aloud at her own insensitivity and blushed a deep, mortified crimson, but Olememnon raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Don’t worry, Thirrin, I’m perfectly well aware that the Convocation of Women has chosen a new leader. But any power that I had as an officer depended on Elemnestra. I was only the commander of the
infantry because I was her consort. Without her, I’m just another soldier in the army of the Hypolitan.”

“We live in the oddest of times, Uncle. Therefore we may act oddly, and so I, as Queen of the Icemark, appoint you Commander of the Hypolitan Infantry. And you don’t have to worry, the new Basilea is a sensible woman and agrees with me. We can’t lose one of our best officers just when we need him most.”

“But what if he has nothing left to give? How can I lead troops in battle when I don’t even have the strength to think straight? I almost have to remember to breathe; blinking has become a matter for consideration: Do I do it now or wait until my eyes sting? This is what I’ve become now that I no longer have Elemnestra.”

Thirrin looked at him in wonder. Is this what grief could do, make almost a comedy of your life? Reduce grown people to the position of helpless babies? If it weren’t so serious, she could almost laugh. “But the living still need you, Uncle Ollie. Help us, please. If you don’t, then the entire population could suffer what you feel now, or at least those who survive.”

He smiled sadly. “They will anyway, at some point in their lives. Better to surrender to it now. The cause is lost, anyway. Where are the allies? At heart the Vampires and Wolffolk hate us; they won’t come. And without them how long can we hold out against the vast numbers the Empire sends against us? We’ve had some successes, yes. But with every victory our numbers are less, and with every defeat Scipio Bellorum’s army grows as he sends for more and more reinforcements. The struggle is no longer worth the effort.”

A rage suddenly burned in Thirrin’s body, and she stood up, almost incandescent with fury. “Olememnon Stagapoulos, Son of the Mother, one-time Consort of the Basilea of the
Hypolitan, Commander of the Infantry of the Moon, your duty awaits you. It is not yours to understand the actions of the Goddess; you can only carry out your role to the best of your mortal ability, and if you must die, then you will do it safe in the knowledge that your small tragedy had some part in a divine plan beyond your knowing!” Her voice echoed around the garden, sending a flight of sparrows into the sky and driving away the sense of torpor that had settled over the huge man before her. He looked at her now, a small puzzled frown on his face as though he were trying to remember something.

“Olememnon Stagapoulos, you will come with me now and take up your role within the design of the Mother, or your name will forever be disgraced throughout the land!”

“Those who are left to remember it,” he answered defiantly, but his tone had changed and a new energy seemed to be returning to his huge frame.

“There will be many left to remember it, linked in glory to the name of Elemnestra Celeste, Basilea of the Hypolitan and Commander of the Sacred Regiment, who died defending her Queen. The Goddess has chosen that you should live, Commander Olememnon. Obviously you are still part of her design, and it remains your duty to fulfill your role.” Slowly the rage abated, and Thirrin looked at the soldier who now sat, head bowed, before her. She stooped and took his hand in hers. “Come on, Uncle Ollie, your people need you, and so do I.”

As she watched, the massive shoulders seemed almost to inflate as he drew a deep steadying breath and released it in an explosive sigh. After a few moments he climbed to his feet and smiled, uncertainly at first, then slowly broadening it into a brilliant grin that seemed to split his face. “Elemnestra wouldn’t let me rest, anyway. ‘There are things to be done and
we’re the ones to do them,’ she’d say. Let’s go and see what needs doing.”

Thirrin hugged him fiercely, relief and happiness flooding through her, then taking his hand she led him back to the small doorway, each step seeming to add strength to the consort of the fallen Basilea.

The first two of the reinforcing armies had arrived, and Scipio Bellorum had personally overseen their settling into camp. Talk among the soldiers would have soon let them know just how difficult this stage of the war was proving to be, and he wanted to put the stamp of his authority and personality on them before morale could slip too far.

He’d already announced two rest days, which would allow the other two armies to arrive, and also let his men get well and truly drunk, with a day for recovery before they continued the campaign in earnest again. It also wouldn’t be lost on the soldiers that the Empire was sufficiently in control to dictate the pace of the war. There would be fighting when
they
chose, and not before. The barbarians would have to wait until the Empire was good and ready.

The army hadn’t been totally inactive, though. Bellorum had questioned some of the survivors from the earlier attacks on the Icemark’s defenses, and there seemed to be some evidence that the ditch-and-embankment system didn’t extend very far into the forest. There might even be a gap in the defenses. With this in mind he’d sent in several armed scouting parties, but so far none had returned. He sat now in his tent, its viewing wall raised, and watched through his monoculum as a much larger skirmishing party entered the eaves of the forest.

This time they had orders to send back messengers at
regular intervals to give reports. As he watched, the last of the soldiers disappeared from view, and for the next hour he waited patiently, nibbling from a silver dish of exotic fruits that had been sent from all parts of the massive Polypontian Empire.

Bellorum then heard the unmistakable sound of a musket volley, followed by the scattered, sporadic firing of soldiers under pressure. Obviously whatever the defenses were in the forest, they were strong. For the next hour he continued to scan the trees. Once, he thought he caught sight of soldiers in oddly designed and colored armor, green and brown like the surrounding foliage, but not one member of the skirmishing party emerged.

“No weak point there, then,” he said to himself, and decisively snapping his eyeglass shut he sent an orderly to call his staff officers together so he could begin planning the next move.

For the rest of the day Bellorum discussed the tactics of the “endgame,” as he insisted on calling the stage of the war they were about to enter.

“I’ve decided to make these backward people use their own barbarity against themselves.” He smiled charmingly around the table where his officers sat watching him attentively. “The rational sciences are virtually unknown to them, so superstition rules their every moment. The night, therefore, probably holds an entire pantheon of terrors for the soldiers of the Icemark — and I intend to exploit that foolishness.”

Bellorum walked to an easel where a large chart of complicated equations and diagrams was drawn. “You’ve probably all noticed over the past few days that the moon is almost full, and that in these latitudes it’s remarkably large and bright.” A murmur of agreement drifted around the table. “Well, gentlemen,” he continued, pointing to the chart, “in two days’ time
the moon will be at its largest and brightest; in the eyes of the barbaric and backward, it is a time of power and magic, a time of fear and dread, and a time, gentlemen, when we will attack!”

The murmur rose to a babble, which abruptly stopped as the general laughed. “Yes, we will attack by moonlight. Already the nights are almost as bright as day, and when the moon is full, it will be brighter still. Our greatest ally has always been fear, but as soldiers of the night, we will be truly dreadful. These uneducated savages will run before us like frightened children!”

The officers broke into spontaneous applause, and Bellorum smiled.

“Permission to speak, sir,” requested a young commander, taking everyone by surprise.

“Of course,” the general said, recovering quickly.

“I’d like to report a rumor I’ve heard among the men. It’s at least interesting, and could be important.”

“Well?” said Bellorum, his pleasant tones edged with the slightest ice.

“Several of the pikemen and shield-bearers have reported that … well, that the giant leopards use human speech, in fact, the same language as the enemy soldiers.”

A stunned silence fell, until Bellorum threw back his head and laughed. Immediately the other officers joined in, only stopping when the general did. “I suggest you charge those men with being drunk on duty.”

The young commander smiled nervously but continued. “Then I would need to charge over five hundred men.”

Bellorum stared at him for several seconds, but his gaze was returned with frank respect. “And do you believe these rumors?”

“I believe that the men who report them believe them to be true.”

“Young recruits, no doubt inexperienced and easily inflamed by the heat of battle.”

“No, sir. Veterans of the Red Army, some with more than twenty years’ service behind them.”

Bellorum sat down, his eyes staring into the middle distance as he remembered watching Thirrin and the largest leopard through his monoculum after the Basilea had been eliminated. He’d thought then that they seemed to be talking together but had dismissed the idea as ludicrous. The truth of it suddenly flared up in his mind, and with it grew a terrible sense of outrage. Man was the pinnacle of a rational universe! He alone used coherent language! He alone used coherent thought! Anything that challenged this order was an abomination!

“This cannot be allowed,” he said, his voice still and cold. “Talking beasts are an insult to the Cosmos. Gentlemen, we have a duty to destroy these freaks of nature in the name of all that’s rational. In two days we will be at full strength again, and we will sweep aside this petty queenling and her circus of fighting, talking beasts!”

T
hirrin stood on the battlements looking out toward the enemy’s positions. It was obvious they were receiving reinforcements, and Grinelda and her party of white werewolves had reported more troop movements on the Great Road to the south. But what really worried her was the fact that information from the other werewolf spies had stopped. A few weeks ago they’d been receiving daily messages telling of the Empire’s troop movements and other news. Now there was only silence, and she was beginning to wonder if the rumors about the allies not coming to help in the war were right after all. Had Their Vampiric Majesties and Grishmak the Wolffolk King lied when they’d sworn to help against Bellorum?

No! Not Grishmak! He hadn’t lied, she was almost sure. But the Vampire King and Queen were another matter. They hated human beings. Perhaps they were hoping that the armies of the Icemark would damage Bellorum enough to stop him from going farther north.

Leaning against the battlements, she looked over the defenses; the weaknesses were plain to see. Troop numbers
were dwindling by the day, with every attack the casualties mounted, and they had no reserves to draw on. If help didn’t come soon, Bellorum, as usual, would win through sheer weight of numbers.

“They’ll come,” said a voice behind her, and she whirled around to see Oskan smiling at her.