The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark (52 page)

Both forces drew back to form an arena for the combatants, leaving Thirrin and Bellorum at the center. A breathless hush descended as they each sat watching the other. Then the general began to slowly circle, while Thirrin’s horse turned to keep him in sight. For several long moments Bellorum moved in a wide arc around her, then suddenly he struck, his horse crashing shoulder to shoulder with Thirrin’s mount, while his saber struck down like lightning made steel.

Her shield parried the blow and she stabbed at his throat, where his sword swept her blade aside. The horses kicked and slashed at each other with their teeth as their riders continued
to trade cut for thrust. The ring of saber on shield resounded over the plain like discordant bells, as the combatants circled and struck. Both were deadly accurate in their attacks, and both were skilled in their defensive blocks.

Bellorum’s eyes were alight as though with laughter. He was strong and confident, his natural fighting skill polished by years of battle experience, while the young girl before him was a mere talented novice. Abruptly he leaned in close and struck her across the face with the hilt of his sword, but she hardly flinched, and replied by drawing blood from his lip with the rim of her shield. He feinted a strike at her midriff but then struck savagely upward, cutting her chin. She replied with a vicious chop at his head that he parried. And then, smiling pleasantly, he ran his sword up to its hilt into her horse.

Screaming, the animal reared and fell dead. A huge despairing cry rose up from the Icemark cavalry, but Thirrin rolled clear and regained her feet in time to take a rain of blows on her shield. From the advantage of his height Bellorum now pushed and harried her, forcing her to defend herself from his attacks and also from the vicious kicks and bites of his horse. The Imperial troops cheered excitedly; the end was near, the young Queen must surely be killed.

For several long minutes Thirrin fought a dogged defense, but she was getting tired. Sweat was trickling into her eyes, and she couldn’t risk even a moment’s break in concentration to wipe it away. She almost screamed aloud in frustration and anger. If she fell, so did the Icemark. She would have failed her people. Tharaman-Thar and the rest of her cavalry watched in growing fear as she weakened. The huge leopard was itching to leap into the fighting area and smash Bellorum to a quivering pulp of broken bones and ripped flesh, but the rules of dueling held him back. And not only that, this was Thirrin’s personal
battle, and she would hate him as surely as the enemy if he intervened.

The general’s horse struck out with its hooves once more, catching Thirrin’s shield squarely in the center and knocking her flat. Bellorum sensed the final triumph. Now was the moment! Now was the end of the Icemark! Raising his sword, he smiled at his troopers and hacked down at Thirrin, who had struggled to one knee before him. At the last moment, she swayed aside and the blow went wide, forcing him to overextend his reach. Immediately, she chopped at his wrist with her saber, and his hand fell into the dust, still clutching his sword.

Bellorum screamed and reeled in his saddle, a fountain of blood pumping into the air. Thirrin leaped to her feet and, grabbing the reins of his horse, she struck at his head. But even now, the general had enough strength to deflect the strike with his shield, and the blade sliced open his cheek. With a wild yell, the Imperial cavalry leaped forward, breaking the laws of the duel and threatening to trample Thirrin, but the troopers and leopards of the Icemark crashed into them, while Tharaman-Thar stood over her and killed all who dared come near.

Bellorum was surrounded by his soldiers as they bundled him away from the field. Thirrin leaped up onto Tharaman’s back and led her cavalry in pursuit. Thousands of the enemy fell to the sabers and claws of the Icemark’s cavalry before they reached the safety of their cannon range. Then, leading her troopers in a slow parade across the plain, Thirrin retrieved Bellorum’s hand and saber and, tying them to a lance, she led her cavalry in a victorious procession past the Polypontian lines.

The fierce warrior blood of the House of Lindenshield and that of the fighting women of the Hypolitan pounded through her veins and arteries. She had defeated her enemy, and he’d
escaped death only by the intervention of his entire cavalry. At last she felt she’d struck back at the Empire in a way that would sorely hurt it. Tharaman-Thar sensed her elation and roared mightily as Thirrin leaned forward and buried her face deep in the thick fur of his neck. “We got him, Tharaman! We got him!”

“You
got him, my dear. You got him very nicely.”

The Polypontians fired warning cannon shots as she rode by, sounding almost like a salute as cheers rang out over the plain. Thirrin was amazed to note that not all of them came from the defenses around Frostmarris.

But as she turned to look at the walls of the city, the ever-present memory of Oskan crowded in, and she lowered her head. “Let’s go back to Frostmarris, Tharaman,” she said quietly, and the cavalry turned for home.

M
aggiore Totus sat quietly at his desk. At his elbow was a glass of wine and, despite the warmth and brilliance of the early summer day, a candle burned in the stick next to his papers and a fire danced in the hearth. Grimswald, the ancient Chamberlain-of-the-Royal-Paraphernalia, had “adopted” Maggie as his own personal charge and made sure that the old scholar always had everything he needed, even if sometimes he did overdo things. Maggie was tidying the notes he’d made while watching the cavalry battle from the walls of Frostmarris, and adding to them the eyewitness accounts of Thirrin’s duel with General Bellorum.

“All very exciting and satisfactory, Primplepuss,” he murmured to the small cat, who lay in a patch of sunlight on his desk. She meowed quietly and had a quick wash.

“The Queen came close to killing the old devil, and she’s certainly put him out of action for the foreseeable future. But even so, it’s his mind we need to fear more than his fighting ability, and I suppose that’s as sharp and as ruthless as ever.”

The army of the Polypontian Empire still held its position on the rising ground to the south of the plain around
Frostmarris and showed no signs of leaving, despite the defeat and severe wounding of their general. In fact, they were being reinforced on a daily basis, according to Thirrin’s white werewolf guards, who continued to act as spies.

“I think we can expect a renewed attack at any time, and if our other allies don’t arrive soon, they’ll have nothing to do but bury our dead,” Maggie continued to his audience of one small cat. Unlike Thirrin and Tharaman, he still believed that Grishmak and his werewolves would honor their agreement and that even the Vampires would fulfill their obligations to their treaty with the Icemark — but timing was all-important, and the Empire might yet deliver its final blow before they were ready.

“We can only hope for miracles, Primplepuss,” he went on. “Speaking of which, I have an appointment.” Climbing to his feet, he stroked the cat until she purred, then left his room and headed out along the twisting corridors of the palace. He was on his way to the infirmary.

Over the last two days he’d become very good at avoiding the witches as he made his way down to the cellar in the infirmary building. They were often far too busy to notice one old man walking quietly along, and it was a simple business to reach the cellar, collect a torch from one of the sconces on the wall, and then carefully descend the wet and broken steps that led to the cave.

Now, as he held the torch high over his head, he could see the pitted and worn treads that corkscrewed sharply to the right as the spiral stairwell disappeared into the black depths. The now familiar scent of damp earth rose up to meet him, as did the constant drip and splash of water. He was smiling to himself as he picked his way carefully down the steps. During his visits he’d been watching the progress of a miracle, and he
fully expected to be further astonished when he once more raised his torch over Oskan. But even though it was an incredibly happy event occurring at a time of so much fear and destruction, he hadn’t told anyone else about it. Not even Thirrin, who probably had more right than anyone else to know. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d kept it secret, and if his logical scientist’s brain analyzed his motives, it shied away from drawing the most obvious conclusion: Maggiore Totus had a superstitious dread that if too many people knew, then the miracle would stop and Oskan would die.

At last he reached the bottom of the broken stairwell and stepped out across the muddy floor. He knew the way perfectly by now and hardly needed the torch; its light would be used purely to observe the wonder. Over against the far wall he could just make out the low bed, and he hurried forward. He splashed to a halt before the prone figure of the injured warlock and held up his torch; as the shadows fled, he gasped aloud. The long tendrils of mucus and serum that hung from Oskan’s body had developed into ropes of skin that buried themselves deep into the thick, rich mud of the cave floor, and they pulsed slightly as he looked at them. But most astonishing of all was Oskan himself. He was almost perfect. All of the burned skin had sloughed away, to be replaced with healthy pink flesh that seemed to glow under the torchlight. His hands, lying folded on his chest, were shapely and smooth, and his facial features had been completely rebuilt so that the familiar expression of faint amusement presented itself to the world once more. Not only that, but Oskan actually seemed to have grown taller, his legs reaching much farther down the bed than when the healers had first left him in the cave. And even his hair was growing back, a dark fuzz clouding the new skin, like down on a hatchling.

Maggiore laughed aloud for joy, but then when Oskan’s eyelids twitched and he seemed about to wake, he clamped his hand over his mouth. The old scholar knew that the healing sleep was not yet finished and he quietly withdrew so as not to disturb it. He paused only to sink his hands into the mineral-rich mud and thank the Goddess for her gift of healing. Then, taking up his torch, he hurried back up the steps.

Scipio Bellorum sat in his chair rather than lying in bed as the surgeons had wanted. The stump of his wrist still throbbed where they’d cauterized the arteries with red-hot irons and sealed the wound by dipping it in boiling pitch. The pain that had erupted along his arm from the outraged nerve endings had been received in stony silence by the general, who’d redirected the agony to feed a massive rage and determination for revenge. And after the best doctors the Empire could furnish had finished butchering him, he’d willed himself to stand and walk to the entrance of his tent, where he’d presented himself to the waiting army.

There’d been no cheering from the soldiers at his bravery and pure undiluted willpower, just a low buzz of respect. Every one of his men knew that he was one of the toughest in the army; this little display had merely confirmed it, and had also begun a slow realization that Scipio Bellorum was quite mad. His many enemies had known this for years, but it was an insanity that was happily and knowingly embraced by Bellorum himself. He hid it behind a facade of rationality and control that had allowed him to use its energy to reach the heights of his ambitions. What other psychopath had killed as many as he in his long campaigns, or reached the levels of personal power that placed him second only to the Emperor in the world’s greatest Empire? Madness was a handicap only if you
couldn’t control its irrationalities. If, like Bellorum, you could, the potential was almost limitless.

He’d returned from his presentation to the army safe in the knowledge that he still retained their respect — their love he’d have had no use for — and to drive home his standing, he’d had the officers whose squadrons had performed poorly in the battle whipped in front of their men. It was silently acknowledged by all that his own shortcomings had been punished enough by the loss of his hand.

Within hours, he’d begun training with the weapons master to learn how to use a saber with his left hand. Riding would be easy; cavalry mounts were mostly guided by the rider’s knees, anyway, and a shield could easily be modified to his needs. He’d returned from his training alight with the possibilities. All defensive and fighting methods were geared toward a right-handed opponent. What glorious confusion he could cause! That night he’d gone to bed far from disappointed; the army was still his to dominate and manipulate as he chose, and soon even the supreme abilities of the Icemark’s defenders would be swept aside. Even they couldn’t resist a host of more than half a million; it was simply impossible.

His experiences had also forced him to reach a conclusion about the people of the Icemark. They were clearly ungovernable, so when the war was won, he’d convince the Emperor to allow him to “cleanse” the land and repopulate it with model citizens from south of the border. The true potential of the new country could then be opened up, and the huge mineral reserves and timber stocks more fully exploited for the good of the Empire. And when he’d finally tidied up this annoyingly drawn-out campaign, he’d rest the army for six months before beginning another action somewhere to the south, where the
opposition wouldn’t be too stiff and the soldiers could regain their pride.