The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark (53 page)

Only the ache and throb in his injured wrist reminded him of the failure of the day. Somewhere, deep in his mind, his madness glowed like a banked-down fire, waiting for the opportunity to blaze into raging life. But for now, Scipio Bellorum kept it under control and bided his time.

Thirrin hadn’t been back to the infirmary since they’d taken Oskan down to the cave. She was afraid of what they might tell her. She knew that if anything happened to him, they would bring her news of it, but when it came, she expected it to be bad. For the past few days every servant and housecarl who’d approached her had been held in her steely glare until they’d walked by saluting or had given her an unrelated message of one sort or another.

She now sat in the Great Hall polishing Bellorum’s saber, while Tharaman-Thar slept by the fire with Primplepuss. Down on the defenses the nuisance raids continued as the Polypontians kept the defenders busy, but there was no immediate danger. It was well known that the enemy was preparing for a final assault, and when it came, everyone would know about it.

She was resigned to the coming defeat. But not one of her soldiers suspected that their Queen believed the coming assault would sweep them aside, to end the nation of the Icemark and the ruling House of Lindenshield. Outwardly Thirrin appeared as confident and as strong as ever, but she had despaired of help ever arriving. She had only one ambition left, and that was to live long enough to kill Bellorum, the man who was responsible for all the disasters of the last few months.
Her father was dead, her kingdom was as good as lost, and her greatest friend lay burned beyond recognition and was probably dying even now, if he wasn’t already dead. Only the discipline of her military training, her pride, and her towering hatred of Bellorum kept her going.

She added a final glittering sheen to the saber, and prayed that she might use it to cut out the heart of General Scipio Bellorum. Then she rammed it back into the scabbard she’d found for it in the armory, the metallic ring of the blade immediately waking Tharaman-Thar, who raised his mighty head and glared around the hall in search of enemies. Finding none, he yawned enormously, his teeth gleaming in the torchlight.

“Has the assault begun?” he asked.

“No, there’s still time for something to eat if you’re hungry,” Thirrin answered, knowing that he would be.

“Well, perhaps a small ox would suffice,” he answered, and nodded at a watchful chamberlain, who hurried over. “Beef, my good man, and perhaps a little something for the Queen?” he said, and looked questioningly at her.

“Why not,” she answered decisively. “A cold meat pie and some bread.”

The chamberlain headed for the kitchens, and Tharaman nodded approvingly at her. “That’s right, my dear. You must keep up your strength.”

She smiled despite the desperation of their position. There were times when the giant leopard reminded her of her father, but with a more refined accent. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to starve myself. I want to be fit and well when I next meet Bellorum,” she said.

“If he dares show his face in battle again.”

“He’d better. Otherwise I’ll go looking for him. We have unfinished business.”

“Yes,” Tharaman agreed, and bent his head to help Primplepuss wash herself. “But you have to accept that he may die from his injuries. The Empire doesn’t have the advantage of witchcraft to help heal the wounded.” He rose to his feet and fetched Primplepuss back from the middle of the floor, where his cleaning tongue had sent her flying. “I’m sorry, my sweeting,” he said to the little cat as he bent and gently picked her up in his giant jaws.

“Perhaps we could send Wenlock Witchmother over to their lines under truce,” Thirrin suggested, only half joking.

“Unacceptable cruelty,” the leopard said after a few moments’ thought.

The arrival of the food interrupted their conversation for a while, but after they’d been served and the scullions had withdrawn, Thirrin said, “The werewolves think they’ll attack tonight.”

“Really? Isn’t that rather unusual for humans?” asked Tharaman, who was used to the Ice Troll Wars fought in the long night of the northern winter.

“Yes, very. I think they hope to unnerve us.”

“How refreshingly naive of Bellorum. There’s hope yet.”

Thirrin smiled sadly. “No, there’s not.”

A commotion at the great double doors of the hall drew their attention, and they watched as Olememnon made his way across the floor toward them. “Ah, food!” he called, and smiled. “I could eat an ox, and I see Tharaman already has.”

Thirrin waved at the chamberlain, who nodded and hurried off to the kitchens. “How are the defenses?” she asked automatically.

“Fine, fine. Bellorum’s sent the usual party of pike and musket across to keep us busy, but nothing too worrying. The Basilea sent me off to get some food and a rest before it all starts tonight.”

Thirrin glanced at him sharply, but he smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to have a nervous breakdown because a new Basilea is giving me orders. I’ve been working with her for days now; she’s good. And anyway, I’ve known Iffi since she was a girl. Though now I have to call her
Iphigenia,
and when any of the troops are nearby, I address her as
Ma’am.
It’s all she can do not to giggle sometimes.”

“How’s morale?” Tharaman asked.

“Good. At least on the surface it is. Have you noticed how none of the troops mention the arrival of the allies anymore?”

“Yes,” Tharaman answered quietly. “They seem to have acquired a strength and dignity in their despair.”

“I think we all have,” said Thirrin, confident enough in her uncle’s recovery from his earlier grief to reveal her own feelings.

“You, too, eh?” Olememnon said in surprise. “Funny, but only myself and Maggie still expect them to turn up.” He reached across and patted her knee. “Don’t worry, they’re on their way. They’re just cutting it a little close, that’s all.”

The chamberlain then returned with Olememnon’s meal, and her uncle turned his undivided attention to the slabs of meat and loaves of bread.

G
eneral Bellorum sat astride his tall horse and rested the stump of his wrist against his hip in his characteristically arrogant riding style. Pain coursed up his arm and through his frame in agonizing waves, but it was important that the men believed he was unaffected by his injury, so he urged his horse on and trotted along the ranks with his staff officers.

The moon would rise in less than an hour, by which time his soldiers would have flooded the plain of Frostmarris and would have risen over the defensive banks and ditches around the city, as unstoppable as the sea. He had drawn reinforcements from every point of the Empire, and when the order to advance was given, it would be repeated in more than twenty different languages.

Earlier, batteries of cannons had been positioned under cover of darkness, their wheels muffled in rags, their gun crews dressed in dark clothing and with blackened faces. Then, before the army started its advance, the huge guns began their bombardment. Brilliant flashes of orange and crimson light erupted into the night sky as salvos of ball and chain shot
slammed into the ditches and ramparts of the defenses, sending up fountains of earth and smashing through palisades.

But then the defenders’ artillery began its reply, and the giant crossbows of the ballistas shot steel bolts down at the flashes of light that revealed the gun emplacements. The deep thrum of the ballistas’ released bowstrings was followed by the silken hiss of the bolts as they flew toward their targets. And farther behind the lines, the rockapults hurled a rain of boulders high into the sky and down onto the gun teams as the Empire’s soldiers bravely worked to maintain their bombardment.

For more than an hour the Polypontian artillery tried to smash the defenses of Frostmarris while most of the soldiers of the Icemark sheltered behind their ramparts. But the ballista and rockapult teams fought back with deadly accuracy, until eventually the guns fell silent and the order to withdraw was given to the survivors. Rocks and boulders continued to rain from the sky, and the steel bolts scythed into the bombardiers, sometimes pinning together two or even three soldiers in a hideous reminder of a child’s paper chain.

When the bombardment stopped, almost a minute of deathly quiet followed before a single cheer rose up from the defenses, and soon others joined in until the sound swelled and rolled around the ramparts. Now the Icemark’s soldiers emerged from their shelters and took up their positions on the defenses again. Soon, rock-filled barrels were rolled into the pits and craters made by the cannon fire, and teams of engineers swarmed over the palisades, lashing together the broken wood with ropes and filling in gaps with huge logs dragged from the forest.

Bellorum made a mental note to call the commander of artillery to account after the victory, then he put the next phase of the battle into action. The enemy must not be allowed any
more time to recover from the bombardment. He drew his saber and, holding it aloft in his left hand, he looked out over the shadowy mass of his army and felt a cruel pride swell up in his breast. Here, more than twenty nations had come together under the guiding power of the Empire to smash and destroy the resistance of the Icemark, and his was the strength that wielded this formidable weapon. He smiled to himself as the steel of his saber glittered in the starlight above his head, then he chopped it downward viciously. “Forward, soldiers of the Empire! Forward to victory!”

The order was taken up by the officers and field commanders throughout the ranks, and the massive Polypontian war machine rolled down onto the plain of Frostmarris.

On the defenses, Thirrin watched with Tharaman-Thar as the final battle began. Each of the enemy soldiers carried a torch, and as they advanced toward them it seemed that a universe of stars had taken up arms, each separate regiment clearly defined like a galaxy in the vastness of the army’s firmament.

“What a beautiful sight, Tharaman,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he agreed. “It’s almost possible to forget why they’re here.”

“Almost, but not quite,” she answered, turning to issue orders to her officers. Drums all along the defenses began to rattle out a stirring beat, and the housecarls began their traditional chant: “OUT! Out! Out! OUT! Out! Out! OUT! Out! Out!” The rhythm echoed along the lines, swelling to a crescendo as more and more soldiers took it up. The leopards and human troopers of the cavalry stood with Thirrin and the Thar, as did the white werewolves, who had been through so much with the human Queen that they’d come to regard her as their own. Farther along the line, the Hypolitan, under their new
Basilea, readied themselves for the onslaught, the deep voice of Olememnon shouting out orders and steadying the line. And still the housecarls chanted their challenge, “OUT! Out! Out! OUT! Out! Out! OUT! Out! Out!” mingling with a synchronized rattle as the young boys and girls of the drum corps beat a fighting rhythm for the coming attack.

Out on the plain, the enemy came on, the fife and drums of their own military bands echoing eerily in the dark. As soon as they came within range, the Icemark’s ballistas and rockapults launched an attack against the advancing horde, but they never wavered in their advance. Within a few paces, longbows began to hiss all along the defenses as flights of arrows were shot into the dark sky, causing the advancing line of torches to dance and sink as the Imperial soldiers fell under the onslaught of the terrible rain. But still they came on, unstoppable in their thousands, those in the forefront pushed on by the press of soldiers behind.

Soon they were within range of the javelins thrown by regiments of fighting women in the Hypolitan army, who carried crescent-shaped shields and were deadly accurate with their throwing spears. The high-pitched crack of the opening musket volley sounded in reply, and the solid lead shot smashed into the defenders, bringing down the first casualties on the Icemark’s side.

Thirrin now drew her sword and called out the war cry of the House of Lindenshield: “The enemy is upon us! Blood! Blast! And Fire! Blood! Blast! And Fire!”

A great shout rose up from her soldiers, and they surged forward to meet the first ranks of the enemy. The roar of battle could be heard across the plain, and immediately the sheer weight of the Imperial army bore the defenders back. Soon they were being forced back up the slope of the second
embankment in the triple line of defenses. Thirrin called aloud the first note of the cavalry paean, and immediately her troopers, leopard and human, answered, singing out the war hymn with a growing ferocity as they drove their feet into the earth and refused to retreat farther. The werewolf guard clustered around her, howling and snarling viciously as they struck out at the Imperial soldiers or leaped on them to rip out their throats.

Farther along the line, Olememnon and the Hypolitans were being pushed hard by a massive phalanx of pikes, the giant spears thrusting through and over their shield-wall, slashing throats, piercing eyes, and splitting skulls. Time and again the warriors dived between the long spears to hack at the soldiers who wielded them, but as soon as they fell, others took their place. The Hypolitans rained javelins down into the press of enemy soldiers, and the new Basilea led countercharges into the phalanx, driving them back briefly before fighting a controlled retreat as the Imperial regiments came on again in overwhelming numbers.