by Stuart Hill
His Weird, his fate, lay in the south over burning sands. What did that mean? He and his family had discussed it in the few minutes before supper began, but then his mother had told them to keep quiet amongst the soldiers in the Great Hall, so no proper conclusion had been reached. Charlemagne was both afraid and excited. He’d expected to spend his days like a poor relation, hanging around the palace, tolerated at best by whoever was in power. But his dad’s Sight had shattered that notion. For the first time in his life, Charlemagne realised that although the future he’d expected might have been boring, it would at least have been comfortable . . . and safe. Where were the burning sands? Who were the people with only one god? He could hardly think straight; he continued to munch his supper without tasting a thing. And what was that about the shadow of the storm and a burning blade?
The silken rustle of his mother’s second-best dress didn’t disturb his troubled thoughts, but when she laid her hand on his he suddenly started and looked up at her. As always, he was struck by her beauty. At thirty-three her hair blazed in all its fiery glory and her green eyes sparkled with the mixture of a warrior’s fighting ferocity and her determined spirit. No one could have doubted she was a queen, even if she wore rags.
“Having a quiet think?”
He nodded, then said, “Dad’s never wrong, is he?” “Never,” she answered with simple conviction. “Even when his prophecies seem ridiculous, they always come about.”
“Then I’ll be leaving the north. I’ll be leaving you and Dad and . . . and everyone?” His voice cracked, and he stared down at the supper slowly congealing on his platter.
Thirrin gazed at her youngest son, so slight and small for his age, and felt a sudden longing to gather him up in her arms and keep him safe from the world and all its horrors. But she determinedly thrust aside such thoughts and, carefully controlling her voice, said, “You are a Prince of the House of Lindenshield, and at fourteen you’re ready for the responsibilities of manhood, whatever they may be for you. Are you prepared for this? Can you take up the burden?”
“No . . . yes . . . I don’t know,” he almost wailed. “How can I say? I don’t even know where I’m going.”
She nodded. “Exactly the right answer. None of us can ever know, but remember that Dad’s prophecy said you’d come back – how, we don’t know, nor when, but there certainly was no mention of anything lowly or dishonourable about it.”
Charlemagne nodded vigorously, grasping at the truth of what she said. “That’s right, it did say I’d come back, didn’t it?”
Thirrin nodded. “And don’t worry about being ready. Life has a habit of preparing you and giving you abilities you never knew you had. At fourteen I found myself the Queen of a country at war and I was sure that I’d fail, but with the help of your dad, and Maggie, and countless others, we survived.”
Charlemagne nodded. He was well aware of his family’s history, and just hoped he’d be able to live up to such an impressive past. Even if he had only the smallest role to play in future events, he wanted to carry out his duties as well as he could, and with as much dignity as his position as the limping runt in a family of warriors would allow.
He squeezed his mother’s hand, and she smiled at him. He was shocked to see that her blazing green eyes looked moist! Surely there weren’t tears in the eyes of the fiercest, toughest warrior he knew?
But before he could say anything, the huge double doors of the Great Hall burst open and crashed back against the stonework. A freezing blast of wind drove through the smoke and slightly fuggy warmth of the cavernous space. All the housecarles and werewolves leaped to their feet. Immediately, the guard poured from their positions around the walls and formed a shield wall in front of the Royal dais. The hunting hounds bayed and growled, their hackles raised and teeth bared.
“Who dares disturb the taking of the Royal meal?” Thirrin demanded, leaping on to the table and seizing the sword and shield that Oskan held up to her. “Make yourself known or die by the swords and teeth of my warriors!”
A tense silence fell, then into the hall strode a massive werewolf with a grizzled pelt and a gold collar about his neck.
“It’s me, Grishmak Blood-drinker, King of the Wolf-folk, and ally of the House of Lindenshield. Put up your swords – I come with news!”
Immediately, the werewolves in the hall howled a greeting to their king, and the housecarle guard beat spear on shield in salute. Thirrin relaxed, and handing her weapons back to Oskan she ordered the guard to stand down.
“You are welcome, King Grishmak,” she said formally. “Join us at the High Table and tell us your news. Not invasion, I hope?” she added, her voice suddenly tense.
“No, no invasion. At least not yet,” Grishmak called as he strode down the length of the hall followed by a group of ten huge and hairy warriors. He climbed the steps to the dais, and thumped his massive weight down into the chair that a chamberlain had hurriedly placed next to Thirrin’s. “But now we have confirmation that the Polypontian Empire is definitely preparing to invade in the spring, and that our old ‘friend’ Scipio Bellorum will be leading the way.”
Thirrin nodded quietly. “So, it’s come at last,” she said. Looking down the table, she called, “Maggie, how soon can we put the evacuation plans into action?”
“Immediately. Everything’s in place and ready,” the old scholar called.
“Good,” said Thirrin distractedly. Then, turning back to Grishmak, she said, “Why did you arrive unannounced, and why didn’t the werewolf relay warn of your approach?”
“I ordered a silence. I didn’t want to spread panic, or even speculation, amongst the people.”
“Very wise,” Thirrin admitted, and quickly returned to the matter of defending her realm. “Oskan, how soon can you gather the witches and other healers? We’ll need them when the war begins.”
“A matter of days. We’ve been ready for months,” he answered calmly.
“Right. Captain Osgood,” she then called to the Commander of the Palace Guard. “Send word for all generals present in the area to meet in the Operations Room in one hour. And tell the werewolf relay to order the presence of all provincial governors and Commanders, with special urgency and priority placed on the Hypolitan.”
Captain Osgood saluted and hurried off. In the small oasis of silence that followed, Thirrin spoke to King Grishmak. “I’ll need the Ukpik werewolves to take messages to Their Vampiric Majesties and to Tharaman-Thar. When can they leave?”
“They’re already on their way,” Grishmak answered.
Thirrin nodded, then asked, “You said you had confirmation of the Empire’s plans to invade. What exactly do you know?”
“We captured a Polypontian officer just over the border, and judging by all his lace and ruffles he was pretty important. Anyway, I took personal charge of the interrogation and he soon told us all he knew. Oh yes . . .” Grishmak added as he fished about his thick pelt in search of something. “He was carrying these papers. I thought Maggiore might be able to interpret them.”
A small leather case was passed down the table to the Royal Adviser, and they watched in silence as he read through them.
“Yes, invasion plans,” he confirmed. “I’ll need time to extract all the details. But you do realise that the Polypontians will change everything as soon as they know their officer is missing?”
“Yes, of course. But it’ll give us some idea of numbers and weaponry,” Thirrin said. “How long do you need to translate it completely?”
“I should have everything of worth by mid-morning tomorrow.”
“Get on with it, then,” Thirrin snapped. And as Maggie hurried from the hall, she returned her attention to the King of the Wolf-folk.
“Will the body of the officer be found?” she asked
Grishmak grinned enormously, his massive teeth glittering in the torchlight. “Never in a century of searching. They won’t find his horse either.”
Thirrin shuddered slightly and chose not t
o ask how the King had got rid of the evidence.
A commotion at the doors announced the first of the Generals to arrive, and Thirrin quickly dismissed all of the non-military personnel, including Charlemagne, from the High Table.
As he crossed the hall on the way to his room, Charlemagne stopped to look back at the heads huddled together as they discussed the imminent crisis. Already, werewolf and human messengers were scurrying away on errands about the city and beyond, and more soldiers were pouring in through the doors. He couldn’t help noticing that Cressida and both his brothers were still in their seats, giving their opinions and asking questions. Medea was nowhere to be seen, but he’d hardly been aware of her at the table anyway.
He felt smaller and less important than the few mice that had survived the Primplepuss clan and scraped a living from the crumbs amongst the floor-rushes. Even his father’s prophecy was forgotten as he slowly limped away back to his room.
The snows of the Icemark and the Northern World had flowed south beyond the borders into the Polypontian Empire, locking the world in their iron grip. Little moved in the vicious cold, and nothing could live here for long without shelter. Even so, a carriage risked the icy wastes, travelling fast; all brittle glitter under a frigid moon.
Ornately carved and gilded, the carriage looked like one of the beautiful pleasure boats that sailed the rivers of the Polypontian Empire. Six black horses, plumed and caparisoned in red, drew the vehicle through the snows of the foothills on the Empire’s side of the Dancing Maidens mountain range, the driver and groom deeply muffled in furs.
Small charcoal braziers warmed the plush velvet interior of the carriage, where its three passengers sat in silence, occasionally passing round a small silver flask of warming spirits.
General Scipio Bellorum scrubbed away the rime of ice that had frosted the window, and gazed out at the frozen landscape. It would be several weeks yet before the thaw started and he could begin the invasion of the Icemark. But no matter, the army was still mustering, and several regiments would need time to recover from their long forced marches across many miles of the Imperial lands.
“Are the artillery batteries making good progress?” Bellorum asked his eldest son.
“Delayed at present in the mud of Isteria, I’m afraid,” Octavius replied in a slightly bored tone. “The engineeers are laying new roads as we speak.”
“Not through the southern marshes?”
“The very same.”
“How very ambitious. What is the rate of progress?”
“Fair. Last reports had them halfway across. I expect them to be done within a month.”
Scipio nodded. “Ten lashes of the whip for every day beyond that for the entire Engine-eering Corps, and two men hanged for every week.”
Octavius nodded gently. “Duly noted, Sir.”
“And your infantry regiments, Sulla. Any complaints?”
The General’s youngest son leaned back into the plush velvet seat and stretched his elegantly booted feet towards the brazier. “Do you know, I actually received a delegation from the Iberian Light Mountain Foot Regiment last week, ‘respectfully requesting’ increased rations due to the harsh conditions.”
Scipio was interested to know how Sulla had handled the situation. “Really? And what did you do?”
“Doubled the rations, of course. One cannot risk discon- tent in the ranks, especially when the men are being asked to march in such appalling conditions.” He smiled, remembering. “I then had the Regimental Quartermaster flogged for not carrying out his duties of supplying and reacting to need correctly. Oh yes, and I also had the entire ‘delegation’ placed before a firing squad of their own comrades-in-arms, for impudence and insubordination . . . by the way, Octavius, I must commend you for your new training methods for the musketeers. They skilfully dispatched the little ring of mutinous scoundrels, despite low light levels and a howling blizzard.”
“I’m glad to hear it. The gods know it took long enough for them to accept it, but once I’d made them use some of the more reluctant soldiers as target practice they soon buckled down. Still, I admire their stubbornness – twenty of their comrades were dead before they gave in.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that. Such stubborn insubordination can infect an entire army,” said Sulla with quiet intensity. “I hope you dealt with it.”
“Oh, there’s no need to worry. I sent all the ring-leaders to help with experiments in the munitions factories. They’re all dead now, and our Imperial scientists at last know what ratio of gunpowder to body mass is required for total disintegration.”
Scipio nodded in satisfaction; both his sons were avid and brilliant students of his own personal Art of War. Throughout the world, the Bellorum dynasty had become a byword for ruthless efficiency, and he somehow felt the coming invasion would only confirm it. The Icemark would soon experience the happy combination of his sons’ elegant manners and vicious ruthlessness. Oh, how the barbarian Queen and her band of allies would suffer, especially as the Imperial scientists had made such advances in developing new weaponry. Bellorum could hardly wait to see the enemy’s reaction to some of his new killing machines.
CHAPTER 4
As Tharaman-Thar and his army of Snow Leopards emerged from the forest, he called a halt and looked out across the plain towards the city of Frostmarris. The huge defensive earth banks that had been built during the last war against the Polypontian Empire still circled its walls, and in the brilliant sunshine they glittered and gleamed like carved quartz under their covering of snow.
“There, my dear, is Frostmarris, capital of the Icemark,” he said in almost conversational tones to his Tharina beside him.
She purred and nuzzled his cheek affectionately. She was well aware of the huge importance the city held in Tharaman’s life, and she also knew that the more casual his tone, the more deeply he felt.
“It looks strong,” Krisafitsa-Tharina replied, her eyes expertly gauging the height and defensive capability of the walls.
“Oh yes, indeed it is!” her mate said, almost as if it was his own city. “But the Empire’s war machine is massive, and by all accounts it’s even stronger now than it was in the last war. So much could be lost, so much . . .”
“Well, we’re here now and the allies are gathering, so Bellorum will get a very bloody nose when he arrives,” she answered in a brisk attempt to keep Tharaman’s spirits up.
He looked at her and laughed, his enormous voice sending a flight of ravens calling and crying into the air. “Yes, he will get a bloody nose, won’t he? A very bloody nose indeed!” And he threw back his head and roared into the frozen air.
Immediately, his entire army answered, and the massive wave of their collective roar rolled over the plain and up to the walls of the far-off city. A distant answering call from the werewolf guards wavered back over the snow-covered fields, and the Thar purred happily.
“Well, they know we’re here. I hope the kitchens have been busy – I could eat a whole one of those cow thingies these people keep.”
“I’m sure Thirrin’s more than ready for your appetite,” Krisafitsa said. “In fact, I’m quite peckish myself. Let’s get going – there’s sure to be all sorts of greetings and formalities to get through before we’re allowed near the food.”
A buzz of anticipation filled the streets and alleyways as the entire population of Frostmarris lined the route the Snow Leopards would take. It had become common knowledge that the leopards’ presence had been requested because the Polypontians were going to invade again. Fear held the people in a powerful, slowly tightening grip.
Before General Scipio Bellorum had invaded the Icemark twenty years ago, he had never lost a battle, let alone a war. And he hadn’t lost another battle since. A powerful and wily enemy, he was as ruthless as a fox in a henhouse and was certain to have learned some very valuable lessons from his last attempt to defeat the Queen and her allies. Not only was he clever, tough and totally vicious, but he had now t
rained his two sons who, rumours claimed, made their father look like some gentle old granddad.
Sulla and Octavius Bellorum were already a byword for ferocity and sheer lack of restraint. Both were guilty of killing on a terrible scale, wiping out entire populations merely to demonstrate the power of the Polypontian Empire. In fact, both Bellorum’s sons had been campaigning independently of their father for the past five years, so it was ominous that the old General had enlisted their help in his proposed war against the Icemark. The only member of the Bellorum family not mustered for the war was the General’s wife, the mother of his ruthless sons. She’d escaped into death many years before, preferring the Great Unknown to a continued certainty with her menfolk.
A fanfare of bugles brayed on the frozen air, interrupting the collective worries of the people of Frostmarris, and the gates of the citadel opened.
Thirrin rode out on a magnificent charger, its bridle polished and blazing in the bright sunlight and the crimson leather of its trappings gleaming in stark contrast to the horse’s pure black coat. Beside her rode Oskan on his old mule Jenny, her long ears drooping with age. Even so, Oskan had insisted that Jenny wear her crimson and yellow ear-warmers, which made her look as though she had a roll of brightly coloured tapestry balanced on top of her head. But despite looking completely ridiculous, the old mule was obviously in high spirits. She brayed loud and long as she trotted along beside Thirrin’s charger.
Thirrin had long ago accepted that one of the few limits to her power was her complete inability to make her stubborn husband ride the sort of horse she thought more fitting for her Consort. In an effort to compensate for this, Thirrin assumed full monarch mode, staring proudly ahead as the people watched her ride by wearing her best parade armour. The helmet and shield were polished to a glittering brilliance that dazzled all who gazed on her. Beneath the rim of steel encircling her brow, the brilliant green of her eyes gleamed with excitement. Tharaman had arrived, and with him was his Tharina, Krisafitsa! Let the Bellorums launch their war; the Icemark and her allies would beat them down!