by Stuart Hill
“Gunpowder will speed things up a little,” said Octavius, with a nod at the wall of ice across the pass.
“Indeed it will,” Bellorum agreed, emerging from his thoughts. “Sulla, your batteries are in the locality, are they not?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Have your munitions officers survey the situation and let’s see if we can hurry things along. We can’t have the troops getting stale.”
Both sons saluted and waited while their father and General turned his horse and trotted away. After allowing a respectful gap to open up, they followed, all three with hand on hip in the characteristically arrogant riding style of the Bellorum clan.
The werewolves’ relayed report of Bellorum’s inspection of the pass reached Frostmarris within an hour. Oskan stood at the window of the Royal private chambers and listened to the mournful howling, while Thirrin, the Thar and the Tharina waited for a translation.
King Grishmak had woken at the first sound of howling, and laughed aloud as soon as the message ended. “Well, well! The old monster’s here at last, is he?”
“Not quite, Grishmak,” said Oskan. Then, realising that the others were waiting impatiently for news, he explained, “Bellorum and his sons have been inspecting the ice wall in the pass through the Dancing Maidens. It sounds as though they’re going to blast their way in.”
“Can he do that?” asked Krisafitsa.
“Oh yes,” said Oskan. “The ice is melting anyway. All he has to do is pile enough gunpowder at the base of the wall and he’ll be through.”
“How did he look?” asked Thirrin eagerly. “Is he old and decrepit?”
“It seems not. The relay said he was mounted on his usual tall horse and was wearing full armour,” Oskan answered.
“That tallies with what I’ve heard from the Wolf-folk spies,” said Grishmak. “He’s still in full command of his armies and will even fight when the going gets tricky. Time’s had little effect on our old friend, it seems.”
Thirrin sat back in her chair and took a deep steadying breath. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about the news. In one way, Bellorum as a shambling wreck destroyed by old age would have been very satisfying. But in another, it would have robbed her of the chance to confront him in combat with honour. If he was as strong as ever, then she still had the chance to finish the job she’d started almost twenty years ago when she’d chopped off his hand. She wanted him killed, and she wanted to be the one who did the killing, in fair combat.
“It seems to me your destiny’s waiting for you, my dear,” said Tharaman. And all eyes turned to Oskan, who merely shrugged.
“Who knows?” he said. “The eyes of the Sight are firmly closed.”
High in her tower, Medea watched events with interest. She’d heard the Wolf-folk message about Bellorum and his visit to the ice barrier in the pass, and this had helped to fill in her sketchy view of events. She’d been able to see the General and his sons, but she’d had no idea what they were saying or planning. Now she knew that he was going to blast his way into the Icemark, she finally gave up the unequal struggle against her father to bring about an early thaw. The Polypontians could do without her help.
She lay back in her chair and closed her eyes. Slowly, her mind groped its way over the citadel, briefly sliding over her parents in the Royal quarters with Tharaman, Krisafitsa and Grishmak, and then on to her brothers singing pathetically obscene songs with the housecarles and werewolf guards in their barracks. Next, she found her sister Cressida already in bed in preparation for a long day’s training in the lists. She then oozed out into the night to explore the possibilities of the city.
Medea’s Gift of the Sight was different from her father’s. She couldn’t see the future, but unlike him she could see much of the world about her, though there were limitations and nothing was ever as clear as physical sight. Her mind returned to that tiny island far, far to the south on the very edge of her Eye, trying to find out if Sharley had survived the storm of her greatest effort. Though she believed her father’s prophecy about her younger brother’s return to the Icemark, she still hadn’t been able to resist the temptation to try to kill him. One day she would surely crush Sharley. He would eventually return to the Icemark as her father had predicted, and she would destroy him then – pay him back for the love and attention he’d stolen from her. Love that should rightfully have been hers.
There were now twelve ships of the Icemark in the harbour: seven of the larger refugee transports and five war galleys. Sharley and Maggiore Totus had spent most of one morning visiting each of the surviving Icemark ships on a tour of inspection that had made Maggie almost gleeful.
Maggie was so pleased the young Prince was at last seeing beyond his own problems and showing concern for others. Sharley had even insisted that the least damaged of the war galleys should mount a search for possible survivors from the missing ships, and he’d been inconsolable when they’d returned a day later with nothing to report. And then, as the repairs had got under way, he’d asked questions about everything, and even helped where he could. But it wasn’t to last, and as the ships’ carpenters carried out repairs to the vessels and it became clear that it was likely to be half a month or more before they’d be ready to continue their journey, Sharley soon got bored with the sound of hammers and saws. Now Prince Face-ache was back and looking for any reason to be miserable.
Maggie, desperate to keep him occupied, made a suggestion. “Well, Charlemagne, how about making a mini State visit to one of the dhows?”
Sharley looked across the water to where the strange ships lay anchored, his face a careful mask that hid his keen interest. “That might be all right,” he conceded. “When do we go?”
After an hour or so, all the preparations had been made and requests to visit had been formally lodged. Maggie and Sharley climbed into the small boat that would row them across to the dhows. “Now, remember, Charlemagne, the Desert People come from a strictly ordered and formal society. Good manners are everything, as is your status within the social order. The fact that you’re a Prince Regent and I’m a Royal Adviser has given us a very high standing, even if we are from a backward and barbaric land,” said Maggie, slipping into his lecture mode.
“Backward and barbaric!”
“Yes. Compared to the civilisation of the desert, the Icemark is indeed barbarous and uncultured.”
“I see,” said Sharley. “I’m surprised they’ve decided to soil their ships with our presence.”
Maggie decided to ignore the sarcasm and continued. “Never mind about that. Just remember that as a nation the Desert People are deeply impressed by the military strength of the Icemark, and that may help you to look them in the eye. After all, no other country has ever defeated a full-scale Polypontian invasion led by Scipio Bellorum – apart, that is, from themselves.”
Sharley leaped up in surprise, almost upsetting the small boat that was ferrying them to the dhow. “They defeated— but I thought we were the only ones ever to have done that!”
“Sit down, you’ll have us over! Yes, officially, yes, the Icemark is the only country to have defeated Bellorum. But many years ago when Bellorum was still a young officer, the army of the Sultan of the time killed the Imperial Commander of the Empire along with most of his Chiefs of Staff. This left Bellorum as the most senior officer and he had to lead the retreat back to the border. He showed, even then, a superb military ability, but he wasn’t in overall command. The bitter war ended in stalemate. The brilliant cavalry of the Desert People was never fully defeated, and this fact, coupled with the harsh nature of the Desert Kingdom, meant that it simply wasn’t worth the Empire’s effort to carry on fighting.
“Even so, the Desert Kingdom has never recovered from the war. None of the destroyed cities and settlements have ever been rebuilt. Only the capital remains, deep in the heart of their land; that and one harbour town. But they continue to fight border skirmishes because the Empire kept up its policy of repression to ensure t
he Desert People will never rise to glory again. Or so they hope.”
The boat finally arrived at the largest and richest of the dhows, interrupting the many questions Sharley wanted to ask. But soon he was distracted with new interests as he noticed the crew of the foreign vessel watching their approach. They were all dark of complexion and had black liquid eyes that returned his gaze with frank curiosity. Many of them wore swathes of cloth on their heads, and their straight, well-defined noses supported some of the deepest frowns Sharley had ever seen.
A ladder was let down over the side, and many willing hands reached to help when they noticed that Sharley’s weak leg made it difficult for him to climb up. He soon stood on deck, smiling shyly at the men who gathered about him.
“It’s your hair and eyes,” Maggie explained as he struggled up to stand next to him. “Many of them have never seen such colouring.”
“Oh,” Sharley said and immediately blushed a deep crimson. In the sunlight his red hair had taken on a fiery quality and seemed to blaze about his head, and even his eyes seemed to have developed a deeper, more lustrous green colouring.
Seeing the young Prince’s confusion, the old scholar stepped forward and salaamed deeply to a finely dressed man. Sharley assumed this was the Captain, and he was about to copy the greeting, which involved touching the heart, lips and forehead, but Maggie caught his eye and shook his head.
Speaking slowly and carefully in the tongue of the Desert People, the old scholar introduced them, taking particular care to mention all of Sharley’s princely titles and especially his role as Regent to the people in exile. The Captain gave a start at Charlemagne’s name, but recovered quickly to salaam deeply in return and then surprise them by replying in Maggie’s language. “You are most welcome to my small vessel and to whatever hospitality I can offer you. I have never before entertained one of Royal blood aboard my ships, and the honour is entirely and undoubtedly mine.”
“Ah, you speak the tongue of the Southern Continent beautifully,” said Maggie with enthusiasm. “May I ask where you had occasion to learn it?”
“Indeed you may. I have been sailing the trading routes of the Middle Ocean for more than forty years, man and boy. And for the last twenty-five I have been master of my own fleet of merchantmen. I’ve found it is always expedient to speak the language of those with whom one trades; it reduces the risk of any misunderstandings.”
“Ah, of course, of course. Then you probably speak many tongues.”
“I am fluent in five languages, and have a working acquaintance with another four. But alas, I have no knowledge of the tongue of the great-hearted nation that defeated Scipio Bellorum and his accursed army,” he answered, bowing deeply to Sharley once more.
“That doesn’t matter, Captain,” said Sharley. “Maggiore Totus has taught me his native tongue and we can communicate easily in that.”
“I see the Prince of the Icemark is a linguist. May I ask how many tongues you speak?”
“Not many, I’m afraid. Apart from my own native tongue I speak only that of the Southern Continent, a little Polypontian and the language of the Wolf-folk.”
“A strange name. Who are these Wolf-folk?”
“Oh, a backward and barbarous people with a language that matches their status,” Maggie interrupted hurriedly. Then, sensing Sharley’s outrage, he secretly shook his head.
The Captain sensed a mystery, but quickly collected himself, and said, “But where are my manners? I’ve yet to introduce myself properly. I am Captain Al-Khatib of the city of Algeras, that was destroyed, alas, in my youth by the accursed Polypontian Empire. Please accept my hospitality. Let us withdraw from the sun and take refreshment in my poor quarters.”
He led the way across the deck to a doorway that opened on to a large cabin. The room occupied the stern section of the dhow and the back wall was a window that reached across the entire width of the ship. Many of the panes of glass had been smashed by the storm, but it was a warm day, so the light breeze that played through the gaps was pleasant and refreshing.
But Sharley hardly noticed the view over the harbour. Instead, his eyes were dazzled by the feast of colour and texture filling his senses. Everywhere were hangings and cushions, carpets and tapestries of every shade and hue, from gold and the richest red to silver and the deepest blue. An awning of orange silk was draped over a large divan that was populated by a tumble of silken cushions.
“Please sit and take some refreshment,” the Captain said, and led them to the divan. When he was certain they were comfortable, he settled himself on a large cushion facing them and clapped his hands. Immediately, a young boy scuttled into the room and salaamed deeply, then after a brief word from his master he scurried about pouring drinks into silver goblets and bowing as he offered them to the guests on a silver tray.
Sharley was surprised to find himself drinking fruit juice instead of wine, and wondered if it was because of his age. But he soon noticed that Maggie had exactly the same as himself. The old scholar raised his goblet to him and said quietly, “The People of the Desert never drink alcohol; it’s forbidden by their religion.”
Sharley mouthed an “oh” of surprise, and drank deeply. It was delicious. Mainly orange – which he’d once had at a Yule celebration – he thought, and possibly grape, and there was something else he didn’t recognise. But above all, it was wonderfully cool and made a fantastically chilly journey down his throat to his stomach.
“Pomegranate juice,” Maggie explained, guessing that Sharley was trying to figure out the ingredients. “A fruit common to the Southern Continent and to the Desert Kingdom. It’s a rich ruby colour and delicately flavoured.”
“The Prince, I hope, enjoys his sherbet?” the Captain enquired.
“Delicious, Captain Al-Khatib,” said Sharley politely. “A very pleasant change from ship’s barrel-water.”
“If it would please the Prince, he may take a cask with him when he returns to his own vessel.”
“It would please the Prince enormously,” said Sharley, and smiled brilliantly.
The Captain was obviously pleased by such enthusiasm and decided to risk asking a question that went beyond the normal bounds of polite conversation. “Would it perhaps be presumptuous of me to ask exactly why a Prince from the lionhearted nation of the Icemark is sailing south at the head of a fleet that seems to be transporting . . . erm . . . forgive me, refugees?”
Maggie drew breath to reply, but Sharley spoke first.
“Hospitality such as yours demands an honest answer, Captain. The Polypontian Empire is preparing to invade the Icemark again, and my mother, Queen Thirrin, thought it best for at least some of the population to be sent away to safety. And as my brothers and sister are all able-bodied and therefore needed to help in the coming fight, I was sent to lead the people into exile.”
Al-Khatib almost choked on his sherbet. Such openness was unheard of amongst the ruling elite of any country! “But surely the Prince would be needed for the defence of his homeland?”
For some reason, Sharley was neither annoyed nor embarrassed by the Captain’s direct question. Quite simply, he liked the man, and almost without prior consideration he said, “My weak leg doesn’t allow me to ride warhorses or train in any way. Even carrying weapons is difficult because they’re too heavy for me, so I was the obvious choice to lead the people into exile.”
Al-Khatib’s finely tuned ear, honed by decades of dealing with slippery merchants and port officials, heard the disappointment in Sharley’s voice. “But a weakness of the legs should be of no consequence to a cavalryman; I could name at least three heroes of the Desert People who— who had weaknesses, such as your own, and led famous squadrons in our wars against the Empire! There was Mekhmet the Conqueror, who—” The Captain suddenly fell silent when he realised he was calling into question the decision of a ruling monarch.
“Please go on,” said Sharley eagerly. “Who were these heroes?”
The guest was all-powerful in the cult
ure of the Desert People, and doubly so if they were of Royal blood, so Al-Khatib bowed his head and continued. “Mekhmet the Conqueror; Suleiman the Great, who was our most revered Sultan – may the One grant him blessings and peace in Paradise – and General Zamerak who crushed the first Polypontian invasion of our desert lands. All of these men were . . . infirm, but are counted amongst the greatest of our cavalrymen. For them, bodily disability imposed no limitations on their military strength.”
Charlemagne’s eyes shone with excitement. Could it be true? Were these men really soldiers? Hope flared up within him and he almost choked on his sherbet as he took a deep and distracted gulp. But then his natural scepticism set in. Perhaps these heroes were merely figures of legend, with no more substance or reality than a fairy tale.
“But in the real world, Captain, disabled people aren’t allowed to lead armies,” he said quietly.
“In the world of the Desert People, they most certainly are. I myself watched General Zamerak riding at the head of his army as it set off to deliver the deathblow to the invading Polypontians. And he was a man whose legs were so deformed he had to be carried in a litter and helped on to his horse. But once in the saddle he became a flame of the One, a scimitar in the hand of the Messenger – may the One grant him blessings and peace in paradise.”
“But how, Captain?” asked Sharley, in the heat of his excitement forgetting Maggie’s description of the Desert People’s cavalry. “Warhorses are huge beasts, and maces, swords, axes, shields . . . they weigh an enormous amount.”