The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark (8 page)

The fact that Thirrin knew he was also one of the softest fathers any headstrong girl could want was a secret she was happy to keep. He might be King Redrought Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Bear of the North, Defender of the Realm, Descendant of Thor, but to Thirrin he was just Dad, a man with a fondness for cats, a taste for comfy slippers, and a huge laugh that could dent pewter at fifty paces.

A movement in the garden below her window drew her eye, and she watched as one of the massively cloaked housecarls guarding the gate stamped to attention, then marched up and down to keep warm, his breath pluming in the freezing air of the Icemark winter. She felt a slight sense of disappointment welling up under the excitement caused by the nearness of Yule and her Coming of Age. Everything was almost perfect: candles, holly, music, but the garden was a dull, boring gray. At this time of year it should have been bright and crisp with the crystal clarity of fresh snow. But there was none. There was a thick layer of dirty frost over everything, the rivers had frozen as usual, and massive icicles hung like crystal swords
and daggers from every roof. But there was no snow. For the first time in her life it looked as though Thirrin was going to celebrate Yule and her birthday without the usual blizzard howling in the darkness beyond the warm, smoky coziness of the Great Hall. It was a bit unsettling that her Coming of Age should fall on the year that the snows were late. Perhaps she should ignore her modern education and see some
message
in this; after all, the Icemark was surrounded by enemies. Perhaps it was a portent of some sort.

Only the oldest folk in the city of Frostmarris could remember the snows ever being so late, and they muttered darkly about bad omens. The last time such a thing had happened, they said, a great illness had come and thousands had died throughout the country. And the time before that, their grandparents had told them, war had laid the land to waste. Many had started to mutter about Scipio Bellorum and his invincible army just waiting for a chance to invade. But Thirrin sniffed disdainfully at this, as Maggiore Totus, her tutor, had done. She finally decided that such superstition was for peasants. As an educated young woman, she knew that weather patterns and wind directions caused the lateness of the snows. But all the same, deep down she couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable.

She cheered herself up by thinking of the preparations for the great feast. There was a constant stream of traders from the city into the castle, and servants bustled to and fro carrying baskets full of every kind of foodstuff, from cheeses and dried fruit to eggs and even oranges imported from the Southern Continent. Some of the housecarls had been excused guard duty to help and could be seen stumping along with huge flitches of bacon or entire sides of beef on their shoulders. Delicious smells of roasting and baking wafted along every corridor, and the ghostly sounds of distant musicians practicing
Yuletide carols in the towers and basements stole into the ear whenever there was a lull in the noise.

But even above the Yuletide preparations and her birthday, Thirrin felt an added spice of secret excitement, though she wouldn’t admit the cause of it, even to herself. She’d invited Oskan to the Yule Feast. Or rather, she’d sent a royal command ordering his presence on the twenty-first day of Icemas. At least the lack of snow meant that the roads would be clear and he could get there from his cave in the forest with no problems. Even so, she’d decided to send an escort of cavalry to fetch him. The wolves were always hungry at this time of year. She’d also have to make sure that he and the surgeon didn’t cross each other’s path. Ever since she’d brought the stable hand home from Oskan’s cave, and he’d returned to his duties with only a slight scar on his arm to show where he’d been injured, the surgeon had been insufferable.

She stood up from the window seat and fetched her sword. She hated sitting still for long, and she knew that even during the Yule preparations there were always housecarls ready for weapons practice down in the lists or training grounds. As Thirrin strode along the corridor, the bustle and noise swirled about her, filling her eyes, ears, and nose with color and scent and distant magical music. She felt she’d burst with happiness. All that was needed to make the season complete was the snow. But even though the skies were a dull, swollen gray, there was no sign of even the tiniest flake.

The next day was Yuletide Eve, and Thirrin had decided that she would lead the escort of cavalry to collect Oskan later that evening. She thought she’d tell him that she just happened to be riding in the area and so dropped by to see that he reached Frostmarris safely. Of course, the fact that they’d have a spare horse for him to ride would be a bit of a giveaway, but
she’d just hide behind her royal persona and no one would dare to point this out to her. In the meantime she would spend the morning with Redrought.

Her father always said she only ever ate with him or visited his private rooms when she wanted something. Partly to disprove this, she’d made up her mind to arrive in his rooms just after the midday meal and not leave until the evening, without asking for a thing.

Crossing the Great Hall on her way to the King’s rooms was an exciting obstacle course of decorations lying around the floor, ready to be tacked to the lath-and-plaster walls; trestle tables set at all sorts of crazy angles as servants attached wreathes of ivy to the edges; and harassed-looking chamberlains rushing by on their way to kitchens, storerooms, or the wine cellar. It was less than a day now before the great feast began, and everything must be ready. Several of Redrought’s most important barons and baronesses would be staying, and finding housing for their entourages and soldier escorts was the usual nightmare that happened every year. It was odd, thought Thirrin, but no matter how early the household staff started their preparations, there was always this crazy, lastminute panic before everything finally came together.

At last she skirted around the Throne of State and almost fell through the small entranceway hidden behind it that led into Redrought’s rooms. She shut the door behind her and leaned against the woodwork for a moment, completely overwhelmed by the excitement of the preparations. When she finally looked up, the quiet and calm of the room washed over her. The King was sitting in his usual chair surrounded by a mountain of colorful cushions, while Grimswald, the elderly Chamberlain-of-the-Royal-Paraphernalia, sat on a low stool next to him reading from a beautifully illuminated book.
Thirrin recognized this as one of her father’s personal Yuletide traditions: He had a passage from
The Book of the Ancestors
read to him every day during the two-week lead-up to Yule. And true to form, he suddenly bellowed a huge guffaw of laughter as he happily scrutinized the illuminated scrollwork of the pages and caught sight of one of the mythical animals peering out at him. Redrought had ordered the book from the Holy Brothers of the Southern Continent when Thirrin was still a baby and, such was the work that had gone into its richly decorated pages, she’d been eight years old when it had finally been delivered.

“Ah, Thirrin!” her father boomed when he caught sight of her at the door. “Come in! Come in! Grimswald’s just reading about Edgar the Bold and his war against the Dragon-folk of the Wolfrocks.”

This was one of her favorite tales, so she quickly crossed the room and squeezed into Redrought’s huge chair with him. She threw some of the comfy cushions onto the floor to make extra room, then took Primplepuss, who was mewing a polite greeting, and placed her on her lap. The little cat purred loudly and settled down to a good wash as Grimswald continued the story.

It was one of the longest chapters in
The Book of the Ancestors,
and so by the time Edgar had finally killed the Dragon King at the last battle of the long war, the thin afternoon light had retreated into the shadows of full night.

“Excellent! Excellent!” Redrought bellowed. “Well read, Grimswald. You must be thirsty. Have yourself some ale, and while you’re about it bring me a tankard, too, and some small beer for the Princess.”

Thirrin stretched, loosening the muscles that had become cramped during the long reading. “Well, Dad, have you made your list for the Fat Old Elf?”

“I have. And if he doesn’t bring me a new pair of slippers and a sword belt, he won’t get his mead and pies next year!”

She grinned at the King, suddenly feeling an overwhelming love for the man who, apart from Yuletide, spent most of his waking hours running the country and yet could still find time to make the traditional old jokes with his daughter.

“And what about you?” he asked. “Have you burned your letter on the hearth?”

“Yes. I’m hoping for a new sword and war saddle.”

“Don’t you think they might be a little heavy for his reindeer?”

“They’ll see the inside of a venison pasty if they are! We can’t have the Fat Old Elf making do with substandard reindeer.”

“I like venison pasties,” Redrought said wistfully, rubbing his impressively curving stomach. “Grimswald! Food!!”

The Chamberlain-of-the-Royal-Paraphernalia had obviously been expecting the King to be hungry and had arranged for dinner to be ready by the time the story from
The Book of the Ancestors
finished. Soon the table was covered with dishes and platters of game pie, mounds of vegetables, and steaming fruit tarts. It was a simple matter to add a plate for Thirrin and to order some extra dishes just in case the royal appetites managed to clear the table and still want more.

Grimswald seized the opportunity and withdrew with the servants, leaving Thirrin and Redrought to their meal. At Yuletide there was never enough time in the day to get everything done that was needed to make the celebrations run smoothly.

“You’re entertaining the barons of The Middle Lands this year, aren’t you?” asked Thirrin.

Redrought swallowed the heroic mouthful of game pie he was chewing. “Yes. Lord Aethelstan, Lady Aethelflaeda, and
old Lord Cerdic. Aethelflaeda is the only one who’s ever out-drunk Cerdic, and this year he’s after revenge. I’ve ordered in extra ale to cover it.”

“Won’t Baron Aethelstan compete?”

“Not that old fussling! He’ll sip a glass of wine and nibble a bit of turkey, if we’re lucky. I’d sooner have invited Lady Theowin of the Grassmarch — she’s always good for a laugh at Yuletide — but she’s worried about the mountain passes into Polypontus.”

“Oh yes?” Thirrin was immediately alert to the possibility of trouble from the huge empire to the south.

“Yes. Some of her spies have reported troop movements. Nothing serious, they’re probably just carrying out maneuvers in preparation for their next war. That general of theirs, Scipio Bellorum, can never sit still, and it’s been three months since his last campaign. He’ll be getting restless.”

“Are you sure the next war he’s planning isn’t with us?”

Redrought chewed thoughtfully. “Yes. I’ve considered the possibility, I’ll admit. But I think he’ll strike southward first; the last spy reports said there was nothing amiss. Mind you, that was more than two weeks ago, and when Bellorum decides on action, no one’s faster. Still, the next reports are due any day now, and I’m confident they’ll have nothing new to tell us. He’ll come this way one day, though, I’m sure of that — and then we’ll see how shield-wall and longbow do against cannons and matchlock.”

“The housecarls will smash them!” said Thirrin fiercely.

“Yes,” Redrought agreed thoughtfully. “They’ll smash them again and again, but the armies of the Empire have a secret weapon, far worse than any cannon.”

“What’s that?” she asked, eager for any information about a new method of warfare.

“Size,” answered Redrought simply. “Sheer size. You can break them time after time and they just keep coming. A single Polypontian host is at least three times bigger than our largest regional force, and they have four hosts ready to march even in the few periods of peace they’ve allowed themselves. If they’re on a war footing, there are usually six full-strength armies, each of one hundred thousand troops, and another four in reserve. In an emergency they can call on another three armies of veterans on top of that!”

Thirrin sat quietly digesting this information. She knew from her lessons with Maggiore Totus that the Polypontians had never been defeated in war. And they’d rarely lost even a battle.

“So, what can we do?” she asked at last.

“Hope the next country they pick on keeps them busy for a long time, perhaps even wears them out and makes them change their minds about the joys of war.”

“But we can’t rely on that. They’ve never lost a war yet…. And what happens if we really
are
the next lucky country on their list?”

Redrought was halfway through a huge fruit pie and took some time to wipe away the cream and crumbs before answering her. “We can only hope the army reforms I brought in five years ago will be enough to hold them. Every region now has its elite corps of housecarls as well as a professional cavalry regiment, and the period of training in the fyrd has been extended to four months. You know as well as I what that means: Every farmer and field hand, every clerk and shopkeeper, is battle-trained,
and
the new War Tax means they’re all armed with shield, helmet, sword, and spear. What more can we do?”

All able-bodied citizens had to serve in the fyrd whenever
there was a military emergency, and they had to train for it every year. But Thirrin knew it wasn’t enough. Even with the best training methods and with professional soldiers leading them, the fyrd was still an army of farmers and shopkeepers. Polypontian soldiers spent every waking moment training or fighting or preparing to do so. A soldier of the fyrd spent a few weeks of the year learning to raise a shield-wall and to use an ax. They’d have no hope against Bellorum’s professional murderers. “We need to get allies,” Thirrin said decisively.

At this point Primplepuss awoke and walked sleepily across to the King’s lap, and Redrought took some minutes of cooing and fussing over the little cat before she was happily settled. “Who would you suggest?” he then continued as though there’d been no interruption. “Let me remind you that the Polypontus stands between us and any potential allies to the south; seaward there are only the Zephyrs and Corsairs, who hate us; and way to the south there’s the Southern Continent, which is too far away.”