The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark

by Stuart Hill

  “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.

  33

  General 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.

  Meanwhile, all along the line, the fyrd soldiers fought as well as the housecarls, but they lacked the experience and stamina of the professional soldiers and gradually their shield-wall began to buckle under the enormous pressure of the enemy’s numbers. Thirrin sent as many housecarls as could be spared to shore up their line, but soon her own position was too hard pressed to send any more help, and the line buckled further.

  Bellorum watched as much as he could through his monoculum, but
the light provided by the torches was only fitful and everything was a seething mass of confusion. He lowered his spyglass in exasperation and turned to look at the horizon, where the full moon would rise. Sure enough, a faint glow was strengthening, and as he watched, a sliver of brilliant light rose into the sky. He smiled faintly; now his troops would be able to see exactly who they were slaughtering.

  Slowly the brilliant disc sailed into the field of stars. It was so bright that Bellorum could easily read the hands on his chronometer as he checked the time to mark the moment for posterity in his memory. He turned back to watch the plain and saw the shadows withdrawing before the power of the subtle light. Soon the battlefield was almost as light as day, and he raised his eyeglass to watch his army forcing its way over the defenses.

  As he followed the action, he clearly saw the barbarian Queen raising the rag of a banner she’d unfurled at the head of her cavalry, and he heard her high-pitched voice rising fiercely over the noise of battle, encouraging her troops.

  “Too late, dear child. I do believe your shield-wall is broken,” he said with quiet glee.

  “To me! To me!” Thirrin called to her troops, unfurling the battle banner of the cavalry, and watching helplessly as the Hypolitan and regiments of housecarls were cut off by a seething mass of the enemy as the fyrd line finally broke. Tharaman-Thar stood up on his hind legs, towering over the battle, and roared into the sky.

  “Quickly, Thirrin, climb on my back. We must bring them in!” he shouted.

  Without hesitating she leaped onto his shoulders and called out the war cry as the giant leopard crashed down into the enemy lines. With her charged her human troopers, who’d followed her example and leaped onto the backs of their leopard comrades. With her, too, came the white werewolves, fero cious as they smashed into the Imperial soldiers. Thirrin and her cavalry sliced through the enemy, cutting them down with saber and claw, driving toward the Hypolitan and housecarls. Soon they reached the beleaguered soldiers and, fighting alongside them, they fought their way back to the highest point of the defenses, forming a shield-wall facing outward in all directions. The enemy surrounded them, and they were completely cut off from the city. The tiny garrison left holding the walls closed the gates and prepared to defend Frostmarris to the last.

  Down on what was left of the defenses, the new Basilea and Olememnon barked orders at their soldiers and the housecarls, shoring up the shield-wall, while Thirrin and her troopers took up their position around their banner.

  “Here we stand and die, Tharaman,” said Thirrin.

  “Here we stand. But let’s see what the fates will send us. I won’t say we die yet.”

  An eerie silence fell over the battlefield, and the defenders watched in amazement as the enemy drew back and stood watching them. The army of the Empire stretched as far as the eye could see under the silver-gray light of the moon, and for a moment they looked like ghosts, insubstantial and impotent, as though the merest breath of wind could blow them away. But then the illusion was shattered as they began to chant. The sound was raw and stirring, swelling and rolling over the plain as first one regiment and then another took up the refrain.

  “What are they doing?” Thirrin asked, puzzled.

  “I do believe they’re singing your praises,” Tharaman said. “Yes, if you listen carefully, you can occasionally hear your name among all the other foreign words.”

  “Well, how nice,” she said sarcastically, but deep within herself she secretly found the salute oddly moving. “Does that mean they’ll go away now and leave us in peace?”

  The Thar laughed bitterly. “Somehow I doubt it.”

  The chanting stopped suddenly, and then a low drumming began as the massive army beat spear, sword, and ax on shield. Steadily the sound rose into a thunderous crescendo before dying away to silence. Orders then rang out from the officers of each of the many regiments, and the soldiers parted ranks, making a corridor down which a dark mass of soldiers could be seen moving. They carried no torches and their armor and uniforms were entirely black. As they marched, they unfurled banners of black cloth that had no insignia or marking of any sort on them. This was the elite Black Army of Bellorum’s invasion force. They carried the name of “The Undefeated and Invincible,” and none stood in their way.

  “Here we go, then, Tharaman,” Thirrin said quietly. Then, raising her voice to battle pitch, she shouted, “Prepare to receive unwelcome guests!”

  Deep, deep in the dark, a small suggestion of self began to form. A broken grain, a shard of personality that placed itself with certainty within his head. He rose toward it, toward the thing that was himself, and as he approached, it expanded, filling more of the space he’d left empty. Soon, he filled the entire dome of his skull and then spread down into the rest of his body and beyond, via his senses, into his surroundings.

  The name Oskan occurred to him and it seemed to fit, so he quickly grasped it and made it his own. This was the key, he somehow knew, to memory. But before he could use it, something else plucked and worried at the edge of his newly found mind. “They’re here!” it said.

  Who are here? he wondered. Then, realizing he couldn’t know without his memory, he allowed it to return, and it flooded through him in a tumble and jar of childhood, adolescence, mother, Thirrin, war, and pain! Terrible pain!

  He screamed and sat up, expecting charred flesh and finding instead smoothness and wholeness. Then with a shock he grasped his hands. He had hands! Quickly he explored; he had a face and legs and every other part he’d had before the pain had come! But he couldn’t see. He was blind!

  No, he was in darkness. From a point over to his right, a faint glimmer of light framed itself within a doorway. He placed his feet on the ground and found wet mud, and as he stood, strange tubes of flesh fell from his body and landed with a splash on the ground. He walked forward; he had no weakness, but even so he fell to his knees and shouted aloud for joy. “Goddess! I am healed! I am cured!” He offered a silent prayer of thanks, rocking backward and forward on his knees.

  Then, on the edge of his rejoicing mind, the words came back: They’re here!

  He gasped as the full memory of the war came crashing in on him. “They’re here!” he shouted aloud, and jumping to his feet he ran toward the door. Through it he found a stairwell, and climbed by degrees back to the light.

  The going was slow because the steps were worn and broken, and he was often forced to crawl forward, groping his way over the stonework. At last, he emerged blinking in the dim light of a single torch.

  The brilliance of it seemed to scorch his eyes, causing tears to stream down his cheeks, but gradually he was able to open his eyelids a fraction and look around him. He had no idea where he was. It was obviously a vaulted cellar, probably somewhere within the citadel, but exactly where remained a mystery. Across the empty floor, more steps led to an upper level, and he made his way toward it. As he climbed, the low murmur of voices reached him and he paused. He couldn’t afford to be delayed by anyone, and as though to confirm this, the voice in his head came again.

  They’re here! Tell Thirrin now!

  Quickly he made up his mind, and as soon as the voices moved away he ran swiftly up the steps, his bare feet making no sound. He found himself in one of the infirmary’s healing rooms. Now he knew exactly where he was, and after getting his bearings he ran through the nearest door and along a corridor, then out into the cool moonlit night. The courtyard was empty; the few soldiers of the garrison were all on the wall, watching the struggle on the defenses far below.

  On he ran into the streets, and down to the southern gate. Few saw him, and those who did thought his pale form in the moonlight was one of the city ghosts, disturbed by the disastrous turn the battle was taking.

  He reached the portcullis, found the stairway that led up to the battlements, and ran up to the very top. Before him the plain opened out, beautiful and glowing under the full moon. But his attention was immediately drawn to where Thirrin, Tharaman, and t
he remaining defenders stood, surrounded by the huge Imperial army. The sound of the fighting rose to his ears, oddly faint and unreal as though he were experiencing a particularly vivid mirage.

  Soldiers on the battlements were shouting and groaning, and some even threw their spears in a futile attempt to help the hopelessly outnumbered defenders. Oskan looked around, a strange sense of power settling over him. The sky began to seethe and writhe as ions gathered, just as they had when he’d called down lightning to save Thirrin. But this time the power was benign, it would hurt no one. Its purpose was simply to magnify.

  At last Oskan’s eyes settled on the huge Solstice Bell that hung in its scaffolding above the gate. They’re here! Tell Thirrin now!

  He ran forward and grabbed the rope that hung from its huge form, and with a massive effort he pulled. The bell swung slowly, but remained silent. He pulled harder and at last the clapper struck the rim and a deep, mellow tone boomed out into the night. He hauled on the rope again, and stared wildly out over the plain as the power that writhed and boiled in the night sky above him fell, crackling and snapping through the dark, and struck him. This time there was no pain, only a tremendous sense of strength that filled his thin frame to brimming. His throat seemed to expand, pushing at the flesh until he thought his neck would burst, and he opened his mouth and drew breath deep, deep into his lungs, and still the bell rang on, booming and booming deeply into the night.

  “They’re here!” he bellowed, the words soaring out as though he had a hundred voices. “They’re here! Thirrin! They’re here!”

  Down on the defenses, Thirrin heard his cry and turned to look up at the bell. “Oskan?” she whispered, unable to believe what she saw. “OSKAN!” she screamed. “Look, Tharaman, it’s Oskan!”

  The Snow Leopard Thar looked to where she was pointing. “Yes … yes! But what’s he shouting?”