Blade Of Fire (Book 2)

by Stuart Hill

  Any lesser man might have despaired, but Scipio Bellorum observed the reversal of his fortune with chilling acceptance. Once again, the Icemark had stolen the victory out of his very hand. He raised his steel fist and brought it down gently on the pommel of his saddle. “Well, Octavius, it’s fortunate that I took your advice and kept armies in reserve. How long before the first is with us?”

  “They’re still half a day’s march away, Sir.”

  “Then we’d better make haste and find them, before we become victims of the rout!” And with that, Scipio, Octavius and Sulla turned their horses and galloped away.

  In the infirmary, the witches worked with an air of harried determination that bordered perilously close to the frantic as more and more injured fighters were brought in. Oskan almost despaired of ever seeing the end of the continual relay of medics that ferried in the wounded, but after more than three hours, the flow slowed to a trickle and finally stopped. The wards were full of moaning, dying soldiers, and his resources were limited. Every healer had at least thirty wounded waiting for attention, and out in the side wards where the surgeons worked, scalpels and saws had become blunt with use.

  All the witches were crimson with the blood of their patients. Oskan’s hair stood in tufts where he’d run his bloodied hand through it. He felt like the worst sort of quack doctor, doing more harm than good to the patients he was supposedly saving. There seemed so little he could do, apart from stitch up the gaping holes made by spear, sword and musket ball, and most of the wounded soldiers were beyond even that simple measure.

  He’d already been forced to give the order that poppy be given only to those who were likely to live, because the painkiller was in such short supply, which meant they had to leave the mortally wounded to die in agony. What sort of healer worth their salt as a compassionate human being could stand by and watch a thirteen-year-old drummer boy end his last hours on earth screaming in the absolute extremity of pain? Was he, Oskan the Warlock, really worthy of the title Healer, let alone Witchfather?

  All of these thoughts and doubts ran through his head as he stitched wounds, set bones broken by musket shot, amputated impossibly damaged arms and legs, and did his best to soothe the mortally injured.

  As usual the massive bodies of the Snow Leopards and werewolves put an even greater strain on the hospital’s limited resources, as they always needed larger doses of painkillers, cleansers and other drugs and potions. But who could begrudge these most loyal of allies help and succour in their time of need? Oskan had even had to treat wounded Vampires and Snowy Owls, an area of the Healer’s craft he’d never explored before, but was learning rapidly.

  He worked on beyond the borders of exhaustion, trying to save as many lives as he could. But, at last, all that could be done for the injured fighters had been achieved, and the patients were made as comfortable as possible as night approached. Oskan was truly exhausted; it was almost more than he could do to remove his blood-soaked leather apron and the rest of his clothes before he sluiced himself down with bucket after bucket of clean water. He then dressed in a clean tunic and left the wounded in the care of his witches.

  Crossing the courtyard en route to the palace, he couldn’t help but notice how subdued the soldiers were. Several campfires burned across the cobbled space, but no one seemed in the mood to celebrate. The fighters were all totally exhausted. It had been a hard-won victory, and everyone knew only too well that if the Vampires hadn’t hit on the idea of blowing up the enemy’s gunpowder supplies, Scipio Bellorum would have been in control of Frostmarris that night.

  Oskan entered the Great Hall and found it shadowy and silent. Only the central fire burned in its massive hearth, its flickering light making the distant walls and roof waver and tremble as though they were about to fall. The quiet icy hand of superstition ran its fingers down his back, but he straightened up and strode forward, calling for light and bringing life into the Great Hall.

  It was only then that he realised there were people sitting huddled and silent around the central hearth. Thirrin, Tharaman, Krisafitsa and Grishmak, the very people who should have been inspiring their exhausted fighters with renewed hope and confidence, all sat in silent despondency, their faces slack with fatigue, their bodies hunched in despair. Only Their Vampiric Majesties were missing, but they were probably in their quarters deep in the caves beneath the citadel.

  Slightly apart from the adults were the children of the High Command: Cressida, Eodred and Howler. Being young, they seemed less physically exhausted than their parents and elders, but they, too, were imbued with an air of loss and hopelessness. If the Queen and her allied generals had given up even though the Vampires had dealt such a dramatic blow for the Icemark, what hope could there possibly be?

  Oskan took a deep breath. “What’s this? What’s this? The Commanders of the defending army slumped and silent? Get up and show some life! Get out and review your troops!” he bawled, his healer’s presence driving away the torpor and filling the hall with energy.

  “We’ve just fought a battle, Oskan. We’re tired,” said Thirrin in a frighteningly quiet voice.

  “And I’ve just fought to save hundreds of lives, a battle that lasted approximately three times longer than your own little struggle. But do I seem tired?” he snapped, hoping that no one would look too closely at his drawn face and pale complexion. “Look alive! Frostmarris still stands! Bellorum has been defeated yet again! Tell me, has that man ever beaten an allied army that was commanded by any one of you?” Not waiting for an answer, he went on, “No, he hasn’t! I sometimes marvel at his stupidity. Any other general would have worked that out for himself and have given up years ago! But if he wants to be defeated and humiliated yet again, well, so be it!”

  “You know, Oskan has a point,” said Tharaman, climbing wearily to his feet. “Bellorum is a fool. What chance has he got against all of us? The man must be about as bright as a half-eaten bacon sandwich. Come on, it’s only a matter of time before he realises he hasn’t got a hope in hell and toddles off back to Bellorum-land, or whatever it’s called!”

  The others looked at the huge cat, who was now stretching luxuriously and trying to wash his face without touching the deep sabre cut across his cheek. Everyone knew that Bellorum was the most successful General there’d ever been and that his tactical and strategic flair was unquestionably brilliant, but they had defeated him in the past, and had just defeated him again.

  Cressida, Eodred and Howler smiled. A cool invigorating breeze seemed to have meandered through the dark stuffy chamber, bringing with it the scent of flowers and growing things.

  “We certainly gave them a pasting today, didn’t we?” said Howler. “By the time they broke, the rabble that survived couldn’t really be described as an army!”

  “No, that’s right. They looked like the drenched survivors of a shipwreck!” Eodred agreed. “Though the only thing making them wet was their own blood!”

  Cressida nodded. “It’ll be a while before they’re ready to strike at us again. Perhaps we’ll have a few weeks of peace while they build up their numbers.”

  “Don’t depend on it. Bellorum learned long ago to treat us with respect,” said Thirrin decisively. “I’ll be very surprised if reinforcements aren’t already marching up the line. He won’t want to give us any breathing space if he can help it.”

  “Am I the only one who feels a little peckish?” said Grishmak, deciding to change the subject. “I don’t know about you, but a side of beef would go down very well.”

  “Good idea,” said Eodred. “Me and Howler are going to the mess hall to eat with the regiment. They did brilliantly today. A few words of thanks and praise wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “You’re right,” said Thirrin, smiling warmly at her son and his werewolf friend. “The Red Eye regiment were superb today. But no fighting unit’s better than its commanders.”

  Eodred blushed with pleasure, but Howler looked at his feet before glancing shyly at his father. As a king
of many years’ experience, Grishmak knew very well when praise and thanks were due. He grinned at his son. “The best regiment of the day, in my opinion, and amongst the bravest commanders.”

  Howler shuffled his feet and coughed. “Yes, well . . . me and Eddie have things to do. You joining us, Cressida?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll have supper here, if that’s all right.”

  “Yeah, fine. Come on, Eddie.” And with that, the two Princes left the hall, clipping each other around the ears, trying to trip each other up and laughing as they went.

  “You know, you’re right, Grishmak. I am a little hungry,” said Tharaman, as though nothing else had been said since the werewolf King’s comment about food. “A side of beef and one of those sheep thingies would be most welcome. What do you think?”

  “And some beer!” a voice called from the gloom, as Olememnon strode into the circle of firelight.

  “And some beer,” Tharaman agreed. “Perhaps a little drinking competition, eh, Ollie? Bellorum’s even more battered than we are, so he won’t be making any moves quite yet, and any hangovers will have plenty of time to clear up before the next phase of the fighting.”

  Krisafitsa sighed, and rising to her feet she placed herself firmly in front of Tharaman. “That cut cheek needs seeing to before you do anything else.”

  “I’ll get my equipment,” said Oskan. “It looks as if it needs a fair few stitches.”

  “Thank you, dear, but that won’t be necessary,” said Krisafitsa warmly. “A good wash will soon sort it out.” And with that she began to give her mate’s face a thorough clean.

  Tharaman stood patiently while his face was licked, but he tipped a wink at Grishmak, who understood perfectly what he meant and shouted for a chamberlain to bring them all food and beer. “And bring some torches too!” he called after the servant as he scurried off. “It’s like sitting in a coal mine in here.”

  Olememnon sat down with a huge sigh next to Cressida. “And how’s my favourite grandniece?”

  “Not too bad, Uncle Ollie, just a bit tired.”

  “Oh, a beer or two will soon clear that up,” he answered breezily. “Why don’t you join the rest of us and partake of the brewer’s craft?” he went on with a sense of relish.

  “Do you know, I think I will,” said Cressida, visibly relaxing. “Dad, come and sit down. I don’t care what you want us to believe, I know you must be exhausted.” She patted the space on the bench between herself and her mother. The Witchfather gratefully sank down and stretched his feet out towards the fire.

  “The Basilea must be invited to join us,” said Krisafitsa between licks. “It would only be good manners, after all.”

  “Yes, where is Olympia?” Thirrin asked. “Her mounted archers made short work of the wasp-fighters today.”

  “She’ll be down in the horse lines, I expect,” said Krisafitsa. “Ollie, why don’t you go and fetch her? It’ll take a while for the chamberlains to get supper ready, and we won’t start without you.”

  Olememnon readily agreed, and Tharaman chuckled as he strode off across the Hall. “You really are incorrigible, Krisafitsa. I’m sure the Basilea is perfectly capable of making her own mating arrangements.”

  “Mating arrangements?” said Thirrin in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “My redoubtable Tharina thinks that Ollie and Olympia would make a good couple, and she’s being less than subtle in trying to bring them together,” Tharaman explained.

  “Oh! Oh . . . yes. I see. I never thought of that,” said Thirrin, immediately appreciating how suitable the arrangement would be. Olympia was a new Basilea, she was unmarried, and Ollie was a widower, with long experience of being Consort to a governor of the Hypolitan province.

  “Well, you haven’t had time to think of such things, my dear,” said Krisafitsa. “But I thought bringing the two of them together would be, somehow, just right. It’s almost twenty years now since Elemnestra died, and that’s too long for anyone to spend alone.”

  “Indeed it is,” Thirrin agreed, secretly squeezing Oskan’s hand and causing him to wake up with a snort.

  “Eh, what? What’s happening?”

  Thirrin looked at him and frowned. “You old fraud. What was it you said? ‘I’ve just fought to save hundreds of lives . . . but do I look tired?’” Laughing, she leaned over and kissed him. “Still, at least you managed to wake us up.”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Well, I had to do something. You all looked half dead when I walked in.”

  “Yes, but that was before the food arrived!” said Grishmak, revealing his huge teeth in a welcoming grin as four chamberlains stumbled in carrying a hogshead of beer between them. “I suppose we’d better wait for Ollie, though. Where is he?”

  “Here!” a voice bellowed. “I met Olympia on her way to join us.” He stepped into the light with a tall stern-looking woman by his side. She inclined her head to the company and swept them all with her fierce blue eyes. At first sight she looked about as friendly as a she-eagle guarding her nest, but then she smiled and her face was transformed – she looked almost beautiful.

  “Ah, Olympia, my dear,” said Krisafitsa enthusiastically. “Now, if you and Ollie sit on the bench over here, I’m sure Grishmak can start handing out the food.”

  Tharaman purred deeply in amusement, but said nothing. His mate was perfectly right: twenty years was far too long for anyone to spend alone.

  The two Princes stretched their feet luxuriously towards the fire. They’d stopped off in their room en route to their regiment’s billets for a few moments’ private reflection on the day. There was nothing quite as comforting as toasting your toes after the horrors of battle. They were not surprised that everyone was saying their mixed regiment of housecarles and werewolves had performed particularly well. Their rock-solid shield wall and combined weaponry of axe, sword, tooth and claw was a formidable barrier for any enemy to overcome.

  And now in the warmth of the chamber Howler could feel himself drifting towards sleep, and shook himself awake. “Come on, we’d better get over to the regiment’s mead hall and show our faces as we keep saying; you know, morale boosting and all that.”

  Eodred climbed wearily to his feet and stretched, wincing as his aching muscles protested. “All right, then,” he said through a cavernous yawn. “I need waking up anyway.”

  “Talking of which,” said Howler, “we’ll need to keep the unit on its toes, if we’re not to lose our fighting edge.”

  “What do you mean?” Eodred asked as he struggled to pull his boots back on.

  “Well, Bellorum got a bit of a pasting today thanks to us and the Vampires, and it’s going to be quite a while before he’s ready to attack again, so why don’t we keep him busy while he tries to establish his camp, and lead a few raids against him?”

  “Good idea, but are there any Imperial troops anywhere near Frostmarris at the moment?”

  Howler nodded. “I heard a werewolf relay just before I got here. Your mother was right about Bellorum calling in reserves; the vanguard of a reinforcing army has started to arrive on the southern hills already. The old sod must have ordered it up the line before he marched on us today. Perhaps he is finally learning to treat us with more respect. He’s certainly keeping quiet about the latest arrival. They didn’t put in an appearance until after dark, all the soldiers are wearing black, and the wheels of the wagons and gun carriages are muffled.”

  Eodred laughed. “He has no idea, has he? Hasn’t it occurred to him yet that the Wolf-folk can see in the dark?”

  “Who knows? Perhaps,” Howler replied, shrugging. “But it’s going to take him a while to get up to full strength, and in the meantime we can have some fun harassing his preparations.”

  “Great. When do we start?”

  “Well, I suppose we could ask for volunteers tonight. No written orders, though. We don’t want any of the high-ups getting wind of it and stopping us.”

  “No danger of that. I can’t remember the last time I he
ld a pen,” said Eodred with a quiet shudder. “Come on, let’s go to the mead hall.”

  The Princes swung off through the door and clattered along the corridor, chatting loudly and laughing like two excited boys soon to go on their first hunting trip.

  Meanwhile, on the southern hills that overlooked the plain of Frostmarris, the Blue Imperial Army of the Province of Isteria dug into its new position. Morale was not high. Everyone knew the first attack that morning had failed utterly and that three armies had been destroyed. What chance did they have if the barbarian Queen and her alliance of humans and monsters chose to advance on them now? General Bellorum might insist that the Icemark had taken heavy casualties too and were in no position to press home their advantage, but the General had said many things since the beginning of this war and none of them bore close scrutiny.

  Still, for the time being, the Imperial troops were marginally more afraid of Bellorum and his sons than they were even of Vampires, witches, werewolves and ghosts, and so they continued digging in and preparing for the next phase of the attack. They were quite prepared to believe that a second army would join them by tomorrow, and that a further two were marching north at this very moment, but they were beginning to wonder if they’d make any difference. Even the greatest general could meet his match, and the Polypontian soldiers were beginning to wonder if Bellorum had met his.

  Deep in the caves beneath the citadel, His Vampiric Majesty was still enormously pleased with his idea to blow up the artillery train. He knew full well that he’d saved the entire defending army, and probably the war as well. His fighting force had proved itself indispensable to the allied cause, especially now that Bellorum had the Sky Navy at his disposal. Without the Vampires and Snowy Owls, the struggle for the Icemark would already be over, and Bellorum would have added a new province to the Empire.

  “What are you thinking about, my love?” Her Vampiric Majesty asked as she watched the small smile playing about her Consort’s lips.