Last Battle of the Icemark

by Stuart Hill

  Erinor’s face was a fire of glowing red flesh and ragingly mad eyes and mouth. “DIE! DIE!” she screamed repeatedly as her Tri-Horn waded through the houses and buildings that barred its way, like a child walking through long grass. To either side of her the army fanned out and rolled forward over the city, flattening all before it.

  The commander of the defenders died futilely casting a spear into the face of a Tri-Horn. He was trodden beneath one of its massive feet, wondering in his last thoughts if the ants he had crushed as a child had felt like this.

  The elite female regiments of the Hordes now poured through the breaches and fallen gates, killing everyone and everything in their path, while the Tri-Horns rolled on flattening and crushing buildings, stomping defenders underfoot and carving paths of destruction for the following Hordes to use.

  The city fell in less than an hour, the last act of violence perpetrated against it being Erinor’s javelin pinning a ten-year-old child, who had missed the evacuation, to the tree he had been hiding behind.

  Cronus nodded in satisfaction as he withdrew from the Basilea’s mind. One more city had been added to the growing tally of Erinor’s victories. It could only be a matter of time now before the Icemark and its allies rode gallantly to the rescue. Everything was going wonderfully to plan.

  He returned to the Darkness, where other preparations awaited his attention. His granddaughter really was an admirable Adept, whose powers would be very useful; all he needed to do was to influence her way of thinking a little more. In particular, he must crush her feelings, her capacity to hate in a way that threatened her ability to wield her magic efficiently. But also he must manipulate the need to love that still contaminated her psyche, and then convert its strength into an ability to act with cold calculation.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Then they’re definitely missing?” said Thirrin quietly.

  “No sign of them anywhere,” Oskan answered. “Werewolf and housecarle scouts have searched throughout the city and surrounding plain with no result, and so far nothing’s been found in the Great Forest either. And yes, before you ask, I’ve alerted the Holly and Oak Kings and they’re sending out search parties too.”

  “What about the . . . Magical Plain?” she asked, not yet daring to refer to the Darkness by name.

  Oskan sighed; this was the question he’d been expecting. “Not a sign,” he said, and paused before adding: “At least, I don’t think there’s a sign.”

  Thirrin immediately swung back from the window in their private apartments, where she’d been staring out over the frosty garden. “You don’t think there’s a sign? What do you mean?”

  Oskan scratched his head contemplatively. “Well, it’s odd, sometimes I get the faintest echo of something . . . but I’m not sure. It could just be wishful thinking.”

  Thirrin felt a thrill of fear shoot down her spine. “Oskan! Don’t you see what this could mean? They could be trapped there; perhaps even lured away, and then their presence in some way masked because . . . whoever has them knew you’d be looking for them!”

  Oskan was very well aware of this possibility; he just didn’t want to acknowledge it. Sometimes, when dealing with the Darkness, just accepting that a thing might happen could actually bring it about. He’d considered lying to Thirrin and telling her that he’d sensed nothing, but she was his wife, and if anyone deserved honesty from him, it was her. The fact that she was the Queen had no bearing on his decision at all; Oskan would happily lie to a roomful of emperors and a houseful of monarchs if he thought it would make his life easier. But Thirrin was different; she could somehow always guess when he wasn’t being completely truthful.

  “Look, I don’t think we should panic just yet. It could be that they stumbled across a gateway – it was Samhein, after all – and they’re just taking their time finding a way out.”

  “But what about the possibility they’ve been abducted or lured there?”

  “We don’t actually know that’s the case,” said Oskan in what he hoped were encouraging tones.

  “Then where are they? Two young men, complete with horses, and a giant Snow Leopard don’t just vanish! They’ve got to be somewhere!”

  “Well, yes. Obviously. But finding out exactly where is a different matter.”

  “Just what is the point of you being the most powerful warlock in the land, and possibly the world, if you can’t use your Gifts to find your own son and his friends?” Thirrin asked in frustration. “I mean, why can’t you find them?”

  This time Oskan decided to at least withhold the truth, even if he didn’t directly lie. He was actually more worried than he was admitting. In one regard Thirrin was absolutely right: as a warlock he should have been able to find the kids with ease, and the fact that he couldn’t suggested that someone was masking their whereabouts. Someone, or something, that was very powerful indeed.

  Had the time now come to use the Power of the Darkness himself? If he opened his mind to it now, he would have all the Ability he’d need to rescue Sharley and the others. Perhaps he’d even have enough strength to destroy Cronus without the need to sacrifice anything! Surely it wasn’t inevitable he’d be corrupted?

  He shook his head as though to clear such thoughts and temptations from his mind. He must concentrate on the problem at hand. Deep down in the recesses of his brain he felt that opening his mind to that wickedness was not the answer. He must be strong.

  Thirrin was watching him now, waiting for an explanation as to why he couldn’t find Sharley. She reached up and placed a hand on his arm. Suddenly Oskan found her very presence blindingly irritating. Even her simple gesture of touching his arm incensed him.

  “In the name of all that’s holy, woman, must you be forever pawing at me?” he exploded. “I’m doing everything I can, and if you think it’s not good enough, then try finding your precious son yourself! Now leave me be!”

  Thirrin gasped and stepped back. She hardly recognised her own husband as his face darkened and his eyes glittered with a vicious rage. “Oskan, I . . .”

  “You what? You just want me to sift through the entire Cosmos for your son, is that it? Or perhaps you want me to sift through every grain of sand on the sea bed, eh?”

  Thirrin watched in horrified fascination as he seemed to actually grow before her eyes: his shoulders became heavier and rounded, and his face grew broader. “Well, let me tell you, there’s just not enough of me to go round! There are too many demands on my time; I mean, just how do you think your precious little kingdom has survived for so long against all the muck and maniacs of the world? Can you guess? No? Well, I’ll tell you, because my witches and I have been there to protect it, that’s why. And now I’m getting a little bit tired, so I’m sorry if I can’t find your son at the precise moment you demand; it just might take me a little bit longer, all right?”

  “He’s your son too,” Thirrin whispered.

  Oskan looked up, and was just drawing breath to renew the attack when he saw his wife’s face. Her eyes were brimming with tears and she looked almost afraid, if such a thing were possible for the undefeated Queen of the Icemark.

  Immediately Oskan felt the anger drain away, almost as though some evil energy had been withdrawn, and he slumped against the window frame. “Thirrin, I . . . I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking . . . the words just came into my head . . . it wasn’t me . . .”

  She watched as her husband seemed to shrink back to his normal size, and sighed in relief. She’d seen these fits before; once, in the first war against the Polypontus, when they’d both been little more than children, Oskan had exploded in just such a way, and it was only by keeping her head and talking normally to him that he’d come back to her.

  With all the resolution of the warrior she was, she suddenly gathered him into a hug. “That’s all right, my love. You’re just tired; we all are. We’ve had nothing but war for years and now it looks like it’s all happening again. I’m sorry too.”

  Oskan buried his head in her shoul
der and waited for the last dregs of anger to finally drain away. But what had it been? Where had it come from? Thirrin was bound to ask and he wasn’t sure he had any answers . . . or, at least, no answers that anyone would want to hear. He was just composing an excuse that would explain it all when he was saved by the arrival of Tharaman and Krisafitsa. Getting two very large Snow Leopards into even a good-sized room took some manoeuvring and effort, so Thirrin was sufficiently distracted to allow diversionary tactics.

  “Any news?” asked Krisafitsa immediately.

  “None, I’m afraid,” Oskan replied, regaining his composure completely. “But I know for a fact that they’re all still alive and well. If anything had happened to them, I’d have known.”

  “Well, that’s one small mercy, at least,” said Tharaman. “Now all we need to do is find them. They can’t just have disappeared.”

  “We’ve been over that ground, Tharaman,” said Thirrin hastily. “Let Oskan rest for a while.”

  “What if Oskan took us into the Magical Realms?” asked Krisafitsa, ignoring Thirrin as fears for her child put her usual consideration aside. “We could search properly then, and with the Witchfather to guide us we’d be perfectly safe.”

  “Perfectly safe?” cried Oskan, shuddering at the very thought of what an enormous responsibility two Snow Leopards and Thirrin would be. “I’d never describe even myself as safe when I go into the Magical Realms; no one’s safe in there, not even if they’re armed and armoured with every protective charm on the planet. The place has this habit of changing the rules and pulling the rug from under your feet . . .”

  “Is it carpeted, then?” asked Tharaman.

  “What?”

  “The Magical Realms, are they carpeted? It’s just that you mentioned pulling a rug from somewhere and I just wondered if perhaps . . .”

  “I think it’s a figure of speech, my dear,” said Krisafitsa. “I do believe it means to be taken by surprise when you least expect it.”

  “Oh, I see . . . strange expression . . .”

  “Look, never mind that,” said Oskan, beginning to feel the strange anger rising again. “The fact is, I couldn’t guarantee anyone’s safety, and the idea of two of the most powerful monarchs in the northern hemisphere and their consorts mucking about in a dangerous place like—”

  His outraged flow was interrupted by King Grishmak bursting through the door in his usual brisk manner. “Eh up, hairy arses! How’s things?”

  “Not good, Grishy,” said Thirrin. “Oskan was just about to have a stroke at the thought of guiding us through the Magical Realms, and there’s still no sign of the youngsters.”

  “Ah, you won’t enjoy the bit of news I’ve just heard from the relay, then.”

  “What news? It’s not about Sharley, is it?” asked Thirrin in a panic.

  “No, no!” Grishmak replied hurriedly. “I just meant it’s even more pressure at a stressful time, that’s all.”

  “You’d better let us have it, then,” said Oskan wearily.

  “Erinor and her Hordes are closing in on the southern border of the Polypontian heartlands, and if they continue at the same rate of advance, they could be at the capital within weeks.”

  “Oh, great!” said Thirrin angrily. “Where’d the information come from?”

  “Another military refugee. Staff officer of the High Command, no less. I suppose his tactical eye has shown up all the flaws in the Polypontian response to the emergency, and he’s getting out while the going’s good.”

  “Where is he now, Grishy?” asked Thirrin. “None of the Wolf-folk got . . . peckish did they?”

  “What do you mean?” asked the werewolf King in outraged tones. “We only eat the occasional prisoner of war if the moment merits such an act. And at the moment there’re officially no hostilities between ourselves and what’s left of the empire.”

  “Right, so he’s safe, then?”

  “Yes, of course. He’s being held at the southern border.”

  “Good. I want him transported here as quickly as possible. And make it quick, I think the weather’s closing in.”

  “I don’t think there’ll be any blizzards for a day or two yet,” said Grishmak, eyeing the lowering sky through the window.

  “Three days and five hours, to be precise,” said Oskan.

  “They should just about make it, then, if a werewolf patrol brings him north immediately,” said Thirrin briskly. “Well, my friends, I think we’re just going to have to put our plans into action. I never thought I’d see the day when an alliance army would invade the Polypontus, and certainly not to defend the capital from an attack.”

  The room fell silent as everyone pondered such an idea, but none of them could concentrate on the emergency exclusively. Sharley, Mekhmet and Kirimin filled a good part of their thoughts. The boys may have been battle-hardened warriors, but to Thirrin, Sharley was still her little boy and she physically ached with the need to find him and bring him home safely. But at the same time a nagging fear and . . . doubt, for and about Oskan, worried at the edge of her mind.

  Basilea Erinor sat quietly while the sounds of the camp flowed over her. She’d been pleased to revive the ancient tradition of the yurt, which the ancestors had used during their migrations between the grazing pastures high on the mountain plateaus of their homelands. They made ideal campaign tents, being much more robust and weatherproof than the average tent, and their domed, ‘beehive’ shape, covered in hides and carpets, gave a greater sense of solidity and permanence than the usual canvas. This in itself was useful, as any enemy spy who observed an encampment gained the impression that Erinor and her Hordes had arrived to stay, and had built a town already.

  Erinor smiled; the war of minds was sometimes more important than the fighting. When an invaded people saw their camps they feared the Hordes had come to stay, and when they heard the tales of the Basilea’s ferocity, they often surrendered without a fight. She wasn’t entirely sure why; after all, she never showed mercy. Everyone was always slaughtered. In a fast-moving campaign there was no room or time for prisoners. Perhaps the conquered people were like rabbits that would crouch and scream in terror when a stoat was on their trail, waiting for the hunter to come and kill them.

  But she had no more time for such theorising. Her designated time of an hour’s quiet was at an end, and her most important strategic and tactical decisions had been made.

  As often happened at such times, her mind seemed to clear suddenly and she regained the ability to think about things in a less rigid and unbending way. It was almost as though something had been controlling her mind, and had released its hold now that the important business of tactics and warfare had been dealt with. Erinor smiled again; she believed it was at such times that the Goddess herself guided her thoughts and actions, proving that the Hordes truly were the instruments of the Great Mother in a flawed and evil world.

  Sighing contentedly, Erinor now called for her second-in-command, and within a matter of seconds Ariadne Artimesou arrived, still dressed in full armour. She’d been training with the Sacred Regiment of mounted archers, but had almost literally dropped everything when Erinor’s order for her presence arrived. She bowed low, expertly gauging the Basilea’s mood as she did so.

  “Sit,” said Erinor curtly. “The archers were on target?”

  “Two missed more than the allowed percentage. They’ll be whipped tonight.”

  “Then don’t lay on with too much vigour.”

  Ariadne was amazed. The Basilea had never shown concern about punishments before, but everything was explained when she added: “They’ll be needed in the battle the day after tomorrow. The Polypontian army’s the biggest we’ve faced. And Andronicus is a good general. We’ll need every soldier we can get.”

  Ariadne decided to risk pushing harder than she usually dared for information. “Do you expect the Imperial troops to be more effective than of late?”

  “More effective, better led and more desperate than any we’ve fought so
far.” Erinor stared at Ariadne with her bleak grey eyes until she was squirming. She may have had more than fifteen years’ experience as a field commander in the endless tribal wars high in the mountains of Artemesion, but the Basilea could still reduce her to a quivering wreck with just a twitch of her head. “Make no mistake, Ariadne; desperation’s their greatest weapon. Since the death of the Bellorums they’ve never won a battle, they’ve lost most of their empire, and now we’re about to invade the heartland of the Polypontus. They have to stop us, or die trying. And I intend to see that their trying isn’t good enough, and that they do die, preferably screeching in agony.”

  Ariadne bowed her head. “The Hordes will be prepared.”

  “‘Will be’? ‘Will be’?” Erinor suddenly exploded. “They’d better be prepared now, at this very minute!” She leaped from her low divan and drew her sword. “We’ll inspect every regiment now, and if I find one that is less than ready, your head will be my battle standard!”

  The Basilea stormed out of her yurt, with Ariadne scurrying behind. There then began a detailed inspection of each and every regiment, during which weaponry, equipment and knowledge of all tactical moves were checked and rechecked. It wasn’t until the small hours of the morning that the last division was dismissed and the Basilea nodded to herself.

  “Adequate. Barely, but your head’s safe for now. Make this a learning experience, Ariadne, and be sure that every soldier is ready at all times of the day.” The second-in-command bowed deeply, her face an expressionless mask. “You may stand down for now,” Erinor continued. “Training at first light.”

  Returning to her yurt, she laughed out loud. “That’ll keep you on your toes,” she said happily. But then a tiny movement in the darkened shelter made her draw her sword and leap forward with a bark of challenge. “Who’s there? Come out and die!”

  A tall man stepped into the small pool of light from the night-lamp.