The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark

by Stuart Hill

  Thirrin laughed aloud for joy. “We’ll destroy them with our noise if nothing else,” she called to Tharaman, who thundered beside her.

  “Let’s hope not,” he called back. “I prefer it when the enemy puts up a fight!”

  Later, as the moon rose over the frozen land, a mixed column of horse and leopard trotted smartly back to the city: cats and humans, absorbed in singing marching songs and oblivious to the people who lined the road up to the citadel, watching them pass in admiration and hope.

  22

  The Imperial meteorologists had promised at least a week of quiet weather, and as Scipio Bellorum had threatened them with twenty lashes for every day of inaccuracy, he was inclined to believe them. Certainly the weather was good now, even glorious, with high blue skies and a crisp frost. Perfect riding weather.

  Behind him marched twenty thousand cavalry and eighty thousand infantry made up of pikemen, shield-bearers, and musket regiments. In addition to this he had a battery of one hundred cannons and an entire rabble of engineers, carpenters, and the usual camp followers. This time there would be no mistakes. The debacle of the earlier invasion had been one of the very few defeats any Imperial army had suffered since he’d taken command of the military twenty years ago, and he was determined that there wouldn’t be another.

  His spies had reliably informed him that there was no defending army in the region, and that the nearest large town had only a rabble militia to defend it. The decision was therefore simple. He would take the settlement and use it as base camp for the coming campaign. His highly trained and superbly equipped Imperial troops would breach the walls and secure the town within two days, three at the most, after which the supply caravans could start moving in and they would be ready to begin the war proper with the spring thaw.

  He rode at complete ease, hand on hip, highly polished boots resting in gilded stirrups. Despite the cold he wore no hat on his closely cropped head of gray hair, believing that the men should be able to recognize their commander easily. But not one of his soldiers could ever have mistaken his slight, whiplash-hard figure for anyone else. This man with the light blue eyes and thin hawklike nose had led them to victory after victory. And this same man had hanged some of them, whipped them, and sold them into slavery if he thought they’d given less than their very best. This was Scipio Bellorum, Commander of the Imperial armies, and no one — not even the Emperor himself— would deny him anything he wanted if it was within his power to give it.

  As it happened, Bellorum’s estimate for the fall of the town of Inglesby was over a week off. The militia and townsfolk had kept them out for ten days, despite the fact that the guns had breached the walls in more than six places. He watched now as the latest attack force came streaming back from one of the breaches. This was the third time in as many hours that the defenders had repulsed his soldiers, and he was beginning to lose his temper.

  Added to this, the weather had turned for the worse more than three days ago, and in a rare act of rashness Bellorum had lost a large contingent of troops he’d sent on a mission to garrison the capital, Frostmarris. They’d been caught in a blizzard, and the general who was noted for his good luck had lost his gamble. Usually he ensured that all points were secured before he advanced farther, but the road was open and the prize was too much of a temptation. If he could have taken the city without a blow being struck in anger, the war would have been as good as over.

  But for once he’d failed, and to add to his anger, the temperatures had plummeted and it had begun to blizzard, making the besiegers’ camp a place of frostbite and death. It was now imperative that the town of Inglesby be taken, not only to satisfy Polypontian honor but for the sake of survival. If they didn’t get under more substantial cover than Empire-issue canvas, they’d all die of the extraordinary cold.

  “Colonel Marcellus, your regiment, I think,” Bellorum said as the Imperial troops streamed back from the walls of the town. His voice was as cutting as the wind that scythed across the frozen land, and the shivering of the men within earshot had more cause than mere cold.

  One of the officers standing in the small knot behind him shuffled forward. “Yes, sir. But they’re at a disadvantage not knowing the layout of the streets, and the defending housecarls are as tough as frozen leather.”

  “Tougher than Imperial troops?” the general asked quietly.

  “Well, no, sir. But the defenders are fighting for their homes and their loved ones; that alone gives them an added incentive.”

  “Colonel Marcellus, our incentives include living to see the spring and not being hanged for lack of military fervor. You will now regroup your regiment and personally lead it back into the city. You will not retreat. I expect to see you again either as a corpse or as victorious commander at the head of his adoring troops. Do you understand?”

  Marcellus saluted and marched away to join his regiment, which was still falling back through the breach in the walls. Bellorum then ordered a fresh bombardment of the city to keep the defenders occupied while he ordered up reinforcements.

  Within fifteen minutes the regiment had regrouped and stormed back through the breach, at exactly the same time the other Imperial troops fought their way through the main gates and into three other breaches around the perimeter walls.

  This time the defenders were pushed back slowly, fighting street by street and house by house, until finally, after more than five hours of desperate struggle in which the general himself helped to maintain the stretched lines of communication, the defenders held one barricade in the courtyard of the citadel. Here, the last of the housecarls raised their shield-wall and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the surviving townsfolk.

  Firing volley after volley at the upturned carts and old bedsteads that made up the barricades, the Imperial troops stormed a waiting hedge of spears where they were impaled by the momentum of their charge and the press of their comrades pushing from behind. Again and again they attacked, like a storming sea crashing against a rocky headland, but each time they fell back and the defense held.

  Bellorum watched the struggle for almost an hour from the broken gatehouse, his face an impassive mask, until he suddenly dismounted and drew his sword. The time had come to set an example. He walked to the head of his exhausted troops, who had retreated yet again, and stared at them silently. Then, raising his sword, he turned and faced the last barricade. By this time the short winter day had drawn to a close and snow had started to fall again, drifting slowly down to settle on the debris and corpses of the besieged town.

  The defenders waited silently. Nothing could be done. Earlier, their commander had tried to negotiate with Bellorum under a flag of truce, in an attempt to evacuate the noncombatants, but after listening for a few moments the general had nodded to the musketeer beside him, and the housecarl commander had been shot in the head. Even the Vampire King and Queen in the Ghost Wars had respected the flag of truce; only Bellorum, it seemed, set his own conditions.

  The dull rattle of shield locking with shield was the only sound the defending line made as the Imperial troops began to advance. But this time, instead of charging, the soldiers of the Empire walked slowly forward, as unstoppable as a rising flood behind their brutal general. The surviving townsfolk picked up stones and broken roof tiles and hurled them at the Polypontian soldiers in a deadly hail, but still they came slowly on, unheeding of the resistance. Bellorum reached the barricade and began to climb, his shield raised above his head to receive the blows of ax and sword, but his face remained calm and impassive as though he were taking a stroll in a garden. At last he reached the summit of the barrier, and his sword struck at the housecarls’ line, the thin blade snaking forward with deadly accuracy to pierce the eye and brain of the soldier before him. Then, glittering in the torchlight, it struck to left and right, slicing open a throat, severing a jugular. The line started to fold, and the Imperial troops drove forward, hacking and slashing in a bloody storm. And still Bellorum strolled on, killing as he went. />
  Within fifteen minutes most of the resistance had crumbled, and Bellorum set his victorious troops to work, eliminating the last few survivors. First, the soldiers were disarmed and beheaded, after which the townsfolk were herded against a wall and systematically shot by massed ranks of musketeers. The general smiled grimly as he walked away to direct the setting-up of his headquarters in the citadel. Halfway across the courtyard he stopped at the corpse of a Polypontian officer. It was Colonel Marcellus, just recognizable through the mask of blood that had flowed from a massive head wound. Bellorum raised his sword in salute before walking calmly on.

  Later that night a howling erupted outside the town walls. Some of the soldiers securing the citadel gate heard it, and assumed scavengers had come to feed on the corpses. But the cries of the lone werewolf were forging the first vocal link in the chain that would pass the news of the fall of Inglesby, voice by voice, over the frozen land, back to the city of the Hypolitan.

  Maggiore Totus watched Thirrin pace up and down his chamber. He knew she’d eventually stop and tell him what she was going to do, ask for his advice, and then ignore it completely and do exactly as she’d intended in the first place. With him sat Olememnon, looking solemn, and Oskan, looking sleepy. The only other person standing up was Elemnestra, and her body swayed backward and forward as Thirrin paced toward her, then turned and walked away.

  Tharaman-Thar was sharing a rug next to the fire with Primplepuss, who was snuggled between his massive paws. Every now and then he raised his head to watch Thirrin as she paced, and would yawn enormously and lie down again, nose toward the flames.

  “Bellorum himself is attacking! Attacking in the winter, and Inglesby’s fallen, Maggie! Where is Inglesby?”

  “Where it was when you last asked, five minutes ago. Ten miles from the southern pass into the Polypontus and three miles from the Great Road.”

  “Then he could march on Frostmarris and be there in days!”

  “Not for at least another week. Oskan reliably informs us that there’ll be blizzards until then. And I’m sure he won’t march even then. Bellorum will need reinforcements first. The werewolves told us that he lost many troops taking the town, and even more to the weather.”

  “But, Maggie, we’re dealing with a man here who’s totally unpredictable! He not only began his invasion in winter but, when that failed, he didn’t even have the good grace to sit back and wait for spring! Oh no, not Scipio Bellorum — he simply gathered another army and attacked again, even though there’s at least two months of bad weather still to get through!”

  “Well, if he’s as brilliant as everyone says he is, he’ll have learned his lesson and he’ll wait. Not even the discipline of the Polypontian army can impress a snowstorm. They may die in perfect order, but die they will if they try to march anywhere for the next week or so,” said Oskan, the last few words of his comment lost in an enormous yawn.

  “I’m not so sure,” Thirrin said darkly. “I’m beginning to wonder if this general has a secret of some sort.”

  “He’s only a man, you know, not a Vampire,” said Oskan, reading her mind perfectly. “He’ll die one day, just like the rest of us mortals, and if he’s not sensible, it’ll be sooner than any of us dare hope.” He slumped back in his seat as though the effort of talking had drained him of all energy.

  “Even here, this Polypontian general’s greatest weapon is working,” said Tharaman-Thar, raising his huge head to gaze at them.

  “And what weapon is that?” Thirrin asked.

  “Fear. We’re all afraid of him, or at least of his reputation. He’s obviously very clever. The stories you’ve told me are of a man who’s coldly ruthless and vicious in his cruelty. And yet none of you has said that he’s a barbarian. Even beyond his borders he’s managed to cultivate an image of sophisticated ruthlessness, of intelligent implacability.” The huge leopard paused to compose his thoughts. “He’s obviously a true genius. His weapons are both physical, in the form of his army, and psychological, in the form of the dread that precedes him. And when this is coupled with the reputation of supreme intelligence, he seems truly invincible.”

  “Your analysis is impeccable, My Lord Tharaman,” said Maggie quietly. “But I’m afraid there is a flaw in your logic if you’re implying that the stories are in some way unwarranted. You see, the facts bear out his reputation. He is ruthless, he is cruel, and so far he has been invincible.”

  “His armies have been defeated before.”

  “Yes, but never when he was in command,” said Maggie. “Even when heavily outnumbered, his brilliant tactics have always won the day.”

  “Then it’s time he learned the lessons of the vanquished,” Tharaman rumbled darkly.

  “I’ll second that,” said Oskan.

  Thirrin fell silent and began pacing up and down again, then abruptly she stopped. “Right!” They all focused on her, knowing from her tone that she’d made a decision. “The werewolves have told us that Frostmarris seems empty, and the weather’s going to be foul for a week, so we have time to prepare to march. When the blizzards stop, Tharaman and I will lead the cavalry back to Frostmarris and hold it. Elemnestra will follow with the infantry. Questions? No? Good. Then move, people! I want the cavalry training in the indoor pens, and the infantry likewise! Maggie, summon all logistics officers and tacticians. Oskan … go back to bed for two hours. I’ll expect you to be alert and making sensible contributions from then on!”

  The room emptied as thoroughly as an upturned jug, leaving Maggie in the silence with Primplepuss. “Well, I suppose I’d better do as I’m told and brief the officers,” he said to the little cat that had already grown from kitten to leggy adolescent. But he finished his glass of sherry first, and then called Grimswald to fetch him another. While the blizzards of the Icemark were blowing, nothing moved around the country, and ten minutes’ peace here and there would make no difference.

  The weather was bright, clear, and the coldest it had been so far that winter. Oskan had strongly advised against riding out that day, but Thirrin was determined, and the streets were lined with people braving the cold to wave off the Queen and her amazing cavalry as they rode for Frostmarris. They gazed in awe at the twin columns that glittered in the brilliant sun, the breath of horse and leopard pluming on the frozen air as they waited for Thirrin and Tharaman-Thar to give the order to march.

  Oskan was riding his mule, Jenny, having bravely declined the comfort of the Wolffolk sleigh, and he sat now as easy as a boy on a sack of broken glass as he listened to Maggiore Totus, who was standing at his stirrup, talking earnestly.

  “Remember to use the werewolf relay regularly. I must be informed of everything that’s happening. I can’t keep you properly supplied and the logistics running smoothly unless I know precisely what you need and when you need it.”

  “I’ll send a message every night at the third hour past sundown,” said Oskan.

  “Good. And I’ll expect a message tonight, of course.”

  “Of course,” Oskan answered resignedly.

  Thirrin turned in her saddle and looked back over the twin columns of her cavalry. Farther back stood the infantry of both the Hypolitan and the Icemark, the fyrd and the housecarls indistinguishable now that the heavy training and new equipment gave all the soldiers exactly the same appearance.

  The young Queen glanced at Tharaman, who blinked slowly in agreement, and then, standing in her stirrups, she gave the order to march. Immediately a deep booming rhythm echoed over the streets as kettledrums mounted on four huge horses set the beat for the pace.

  Elemnestra watched the cavalry trot ahead, then gave the order for the infantry to follow. She, too, was in command of her own personal regiment of mounted archers. The five hundred warriors were all dressed in the distinctive cap and brilliantly colored jacket and pants of the Hypolitan, and each one of them carried a compound bow and four quivers of arrows hung to either side of their saddles.

  The only mounted member of the infantry w
as Olememnon, who was riding only because Basilea Elemnestra had insisted upon it. He’d had some odd notion that as commander of the infantry he should share the conditions of his soldiers. Sometimes, she thought, he had no concept of his own dignity as her consort, and she wasn’t prepared to compromise her own standing in the eyes of the populace. It was bad enough that he’d spent most of the morning with that little foreign adviser of the Queen’s, saying good-bye and probably drinking too much of that southern sherry. Sometimes his choice of friends was deplorable.

  He sat slightly behind her now, on a horse big-boned enough to carry the combined weight of his muscular frame and his heavy shield and weaponry. She caught his eye and smiled, but he merely saluted in return. Well, let him sulk, she thought to herself. He’ll soon lower his guard when the cold creeps into his bones during the night and no amount of blankets and pelts can keep him warm. There was nothing quite like another body to snuggle up to when the night was crackling with blood-freezing frost.

  By this time the cavalry was trotting out of the citadel gates and was heading down into the city. Cheers rose up from the people lining the route, and Thirrin nodded to the right and left as she rode. Oskan was more enthusiastic in his acknowledgment of the cheering crowd and waved at them wildly. Jenny, too, laid back her long, woolly-warmer-covered ears and brayed loud and long, earning a frown of disapproval from Thirrin, but she carried on hee-hawing, anyway.

  In an attempt to mask the noise, Thirrin began the cavalry paean, and soon the troopers and leopards were all singing gustily — but, rising powerfully above it all, Jenny brayed her own song. Once beyond the city gates and the need for royal dignity, Thirrin turned in her saddle.