Last Battle of the Icemark

by Stuart Hill

  He truly believed that his evil was pure and unsullied by the taint of emotion, but in fact his every act was a considered manipulation of the world and all around him as he searched for the means of attacking the Spirit Realms once again. Cronus had spent aeons scheming and planning revenge on the Goddess for defeating him and driving him into exile. Medea was just one more piece in the giant and complex plan that he hoped would one day see him defeat the hated Mother of All and secure him the throne of the Cosmos. But he believed that all of his strategies were formulated in cold, emotionless calculation, and so he felt nothing but contempt for his granddaughter’s intense feelings of jealousy and rejection.

  He regarded her for a moment longer, and then, without another word, he turned and walked away across the wide floor of the palace. Medea watched him go, sinking back into her chair and breathing a long sigh of relief. She’d done it! Cronus had forgiven her for murdering the six Adepts, and had accepted her right to stay in the Darkness. But even now there were still dangers: the hatred and rage against her family that she believed to be her true strength, Cronus saw as a weakness. Obviously she’d need to be careful as she plotted against the Lindenshields, and Sharley in particular.

  Whatever happened, the Arc-Adept mustn’t know what she was doing. And in truth he didn’t. But neither did Medea know that her grandfather had begun to mould her thoughts and actions in ways that would make her useful to his plans.

  * * *

  It had been more than a day since Oskan had told Thirrin that Medea was still alive, and he could see she was still trying to come to terms with the devastating and unexpected news. Her eyes filled with tears; she shifted in the chair that stood opposite Oskan’s in their private rooms, and waited for him to look up.

  “Did I fail her?” she suddenly asked, unable to wait for his attention any longer.

  “No,” he answered, understanding her question immediately. “Medea is her own creation; nobody else is responsible.”

  “But if I’d given her more of my time . . .”

  “It would have made no difference. Don’t forget that I spent endless hours teaching her; showing her how to use her Gifts. If anyone failed her, it was me.”

  “But I’m her mother. A girl needs female guidance; perhaps I should have spent less time running the country and more time with my family.”

  “In which case we’d all be dead,” Oskan answered sharply, recognising her words as a cry for help and reassurance. “The threat of Bellorum and the Imperial armies took every moment you had to spare. We all know that; Cressida and the boys know it, the entire country knows it. Of all our children only Medea has become . . . has turned to the Darkness.”

  “But only she could. She’s the only Adept amongst them!”

  “The only Adept, yes. But Cressida . . .”

  “I should have spent more time with her, and less training with Cressida and the boys in the lists. Perhaps . . . perhaps she felt left out somehow; I should have let her know that it didn’t matter she wasn’t a warrior . . .”

  Oskan slammed his hands down on the arms of his chair in frustration. “Thirrin! You’re not responsible for Medea becoming evil! You didn’t neglect her! It has nothing to do with the fact she wasn’t a warrior; neither was Sharley at first, and he never once thought of turning to evil!” His voice rang out into the room, shocking her to silence. He drew a steadying breath, and then went on more quietly. “If anything’s responsible for our youngest daughter becoming the foul creature she now undoubtedly is, it’s her heritage. Her grandfather’s blood . . . my blood.”

  He stood up and walked slowly over to the window, where he stared out at the moonlit night. “Like all children and descendants of Cronus and his allies, she was given a choice, and quite simply, she chose to be evil.”

  A small whisper of doubt nagged at the edge of his consciousness. He’d once believed that the choice only had to be made once in an Adept’s life, but now he was slowly becoming aware of a . . . temptation within himself, of a need to explore other possibilities. He was beginning to allow himself to think the unthinkable. He was, after all, the son of the second most powerful being in the entire Cosmos; what would happen if he allowed himself to accept his heritage, and opened his mind at least partially to the Darkness? Perhaps he’d be able to control it, and use the massive increase there’d be in his powers to serve good!

  Thirrin joined him at the window, interrupting his thoughts and bringing him back to the immediate problem of Medea. The Queen leaned her head on his shoulder. “Then was her . . . fall inevitable?”

  “No!” he said sharply. “I’m a child of Cronus and I was strong enough to reject the Darkness, and all the power it could have given me. Nothing’s inevitable . . . it’s just that for some it’s more likely.”

  Thirrin nodded. “You’ve never really told me about your father. Can there never be any hope for him or his followers? Is he completely evil?”

  “Oh yes! Completely and utterly! I once searched the Darkness itself for more information about his mind; about the way he thinks. And I found his history imprinted on the very atoms of the atmosphere.”

  “Tell me!” said Thirrin eagerly. “Tell me everything. I need to know this creature that’s corrupted my daughter.”

  “There’s too much to tell in one short lifetime. But perhaps everything can be summed up by the beginning of his evil. You know he fought a war against the Goddess, of course, and that one of his many titles is ‘He who refused the mercy of the Goddess’. Even in defeat his hatred and iniquity raged on. Cronus and six others proudly rejected forgiveness . . .” Oskan fell silent and shuddered as the memory surfaced. “His voice had once been as beautiful as deep-toned bells, but as he faced the Goddess, pride and hatred cracked its beauty and it rasped and rattled as he defied his enemies.

  “She knew then that he would never change, and he and his six allies were cast down into the void between the Physical Worlds and the Spirit Realms that was known as the Darkness. But even in this desolate place their pride wasn’t quenched, and over time they created a world that was to become a corrupt mirror of the purity they’d lost.”

  The wind moaned around the walls of the citadel, filling the silence as Oskan fell quiet.

  “And our daughter willingly chose to follow this creature,” Thirrin said, her voice rendered completely flat and emotionless by the sheer weight of her feelings.

  “I’m not sure that ‘follow’ is quite the term to use. Essentially evil is selfish, and even the greatest allies it gathers are there purely for their own ends.” He sighed. “I’m afraid, my dear, that we have to accept that Medea chose to be evil for her own reasons. Nothing actually corrupted her. She’s a creature of her own making.”

  Thirrin nodded, accepting his words. Then, remembering her role as Queen of the Icemark, she forced herself to consider practicalities. “And you think she could be a danger to us?”

  “Yes. But I’m not entirely sure how or in what way. It could be that she’ll be content just to cause mischief, but if she does move against us, I somehow think it’ll be on a larger scale than mere troublemaking.”

  “Will . . . will you kill her?” Thirrin asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  Oskan was deeply shocked. “Kill her? No, no, I can’t kill her, not without truly terrible consequences.” This was the knowledge the Goddess herself had given him to use as a weapon against Cronus in the struggle he knew was coming.

  But once again the voice of doubt nagged at the edge of his mind. Surely there had to be another way; perhaps even Dark Power could be used for good, if wielded by a good man? He struggled to clear his mind of doubt and concentrate. “All I can do is try to destroy Medea’s power . . . render her impotent in some way.”

  “And in the meantime, we have the possibility of a war to consider,” said Thirrin wearily. “Our lives are never less than complicated, are they?”

  “No, my love,” Oskan replied with a grim smile that masked his rel
ief at the change of subject. “What do the latest reports say about the Polypontus?”

  “That the empire’s crumbling and Erinor marches on, sweeping all before her.”

  “She’s a problem that definitely needs addressing,” said Oskan thoughtfully.

  “As she will be, just as soon as the allies are gathered and we can discuss our response,” said Thirrin with vigour.

  The Witchfather nodded, happy to see his wife distracted.

  The sound of marching feet and growled orders then percolated into the room as the Queen’s Ukpik bodyguard arrived at the door, ready to escort her to the feast of Samhein in the Great Hall.

  Thirrin stood, smoothed her gown and straightened her shoulders as she donned her public persona as the warrior Queen of the Icemark. But just before the bodyguard entered the room, she quickly turned to her husband and took his hand. “Promise me . . . promise me that I didn’t fail her, Oskan. Tell me that I didn’t condemn her to evil.”

  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I truly believe that it is impossible for Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield to either commit or cause evil of any sort anywhere in Creation. And any who have fallen into the Darkness have done so by their own choice.”

  A small sad smile touched her lips, and she blinked rapidly to clear her eyes of tears before the escort of werewolves came in.

  Once again she assumed the role of Monarch, and raising her head proudly she said: “Then let us join in the feast of the Goddess. Our people await.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Suddenly a fanfare sounded, and all of the guests turned to look out over the hall. In the past few minutes the tables had been filled to capacity, musicians had started to play in the minstrels’ gallery over the main doors, and acrobats had begun their glittering displays of tumbling and diving all along the walkways between the benches. But now everything froze and fell silent, as though one of the amazing painters from the Southern Continent had captured the entire scene on a massively broad canvas.

  All eyes were turned to the huge double doors, and a murmur rose up as the Queen’s Ukpik bodyguard appeared, marching in step, their ferocious faces glaring rigidly ahead. Then Queen Thirrin herself arrived, walking with Tharaman-Thar and Grishmak, the King of the Wolf-folk. Behind them came Krisafitsa-Tharina and Oskan Witchfather, and at the rear walked Crown Princess Cressida. All the guests in the Great Hall stood and bowed as they swept past.

  Kirimin couldn’t help noticing that her father had on his ‘regal face’, as her mother put it, and he inclined his head haughtily to right and left as the Royal party processed to the dais. But catching sight of his daughter, he winked and let his whiskers droop comically, before resuming his Royal dignity and surveying all from the huge height of his regality.

  Krisafitsa soon spied her daughter already seated at the top table and critically scanned her appearance. She approved enormously; Kirimin was almost fully-grown and was very beautiful indeed. If only she could iron out the more exuberant parts of her personality then perhaps she would make a fitting Princess. Of course, the enthusiasm and playfulness came from her father, and there was very little that could be done about that, but a true member of the Royal Family of the Icesheets should learn to control her nature and present a restrained and dignified face to the world.

  They arrived at the top table and all sense of decorum was lost as Tharaman started to fuss over everybody, making sure everyone had enough cushions and was comfortable, rearranging the chairs and knocking over jugs and bowls.

  “Darling, might it be a good idea to leave the arrangements to the chamberlains?” asked Krisafitsa gently.

  “Eh? What? I’m just making sure everyone’s comfortable . . . ah, Sharley! Mekhmet!” he boomed, immediately distracted from his reordering of the seating arrangements as he caught sight of the boys. “Well, you look jolly smart in your . . . in your Desert robe thingies! Yes, very smart!”

  Both boys stood and bowed correctly. “Oh, yes! Very . . . don’t they, Krisafitsa, my love?” he went on.

  “Yes, darling, they do. Now, sit down. Thirrin wants to formally announce the start of the feast.”

  “Oh, right! Yes . . . well, why didn’t you say?”

  Thirrin had been waiting patiently during Tharaman’s chaos, and now stood forward and looked out over the hall. “The great ceremony of Samhein is upon us once again, my people. And, as has been decreed by the Mother Goddess Herself, and Her consort the God, we have acknowledged the day with rite, ritual and holy procedure. Let us stand now, and receive the blessing of Oskan Witchfather, the senior priest in the service of the Lady.”

  A great scuffling and scraping of benches then sounded throughout the hall as everyone stood and turned to face the dais. Oskan stepped forward, dressed entirely in black but for a thin circlet of silver, etched with the phases of the moon, about his brow. His stern face was beginning to show the lines and furrows of the many harrowing experiences he’d lived through, and his once jet-black hair was now touched with grey at the temples. As he stood rigid and unmoving before the gathering of human, werewolf and Snow Leopard, he looked like a statue of some wise and mighty king from the far heroic past. None guessed of the struggle and uncertainty that was tormenting him. They saw only the great Adept and Witchfather who had helped to guide them through the troubles and chaos of two wars. Everyone believed they could rely upon him and his powers to keep them safe, no matter what the strength of the enemy. Everyone believed he would always be unswervingly loyal to the cause of the Icemark.

  “Children of the Goddess, be reminded at this feast of Samhein that all of us here are mortal and destined to die. Such is our lot in life. If accident or war, disease or unlawful death does not take us, then the creeping enfeeblement of old age certainly will. The mightiest warrior cannot defeat the Reaper of Souls, nor can the greatest athlete outrun him. He will always be victor in the long run of life.”

  His sombre words echoed over the silent hall, and everyone felt the truth of them sinking into their very souls. But then Oskan’s face broke into a wide and warmly loving smile. “But at the moment we’re alive! The fire is warm, the food is good, and the wine and beer are just begging to be drunk. Let us celebrate these gifts of the Goddess! She is the greatest of all Mothers, and loves to see her children enjoying their lives. But also remember that the spirits of the beloved dead move among us, so let us do them proper honour by singing and dancing, and also by drinking and eating more than we should!”

  A great cheer rose up, the musicians started to play and the acrobats cascaded into the air in a dazzle of sequins and skill. Chamberlains and servants now poured into the Great Hall, carrying huge trays and platters of food that steamed and bubbled, hissed and sizzled, as delicious aromas filled the enormous space.

  Soon the top table was mountainous with food of every imaginable type. Grishmak heaped his plate hugely, demolishing half of it in one mouthful. “Great grub as usual, Thirrin,” he bellowed, then turned his huge bloodshot eyes on the Snow Leopard King. “Are you ready for a small duel, Tharaman? I choose beef and gravy as the weapons, the winner being the one who eats the most and can still walk out of the hall at the end of the evening!”

  “Right!” said the Thar, the light of battle in his eye. “You’re on!”

  “Oh, please!” said Krisafitsa in despair. “Does every meal have to be a competition? Can’t we just enjoy the food for its own sake, for once?”

  Kirimin laughed. “I think Dad’s determined to defend his crown as Chief Glutton of the Alliance.”

  “Indeed I am, especially as it was so hard won from Olememnon last year. It’s a pity he’s not here tonight.”

  “He’ll be with us soon,” said Thirrin.

  “But when he does arrive I don’t think there’ll be much time for party games, Tharaman,” said Crown Princess Cressida sternly. “The Polypontian Empire may be dying as we speak, but its passing is far from quiet and easy. Wars are raging throughout its lands, and there ar
e rumours of a movement of people far to the south that could become a threat to us all.”

  Thirrin suddenly looked tired. Unlike her husband, she seemed untouched by the passing of time; her complexion was still flawless, and her red hair was as fiery and as lustrous as ever, but at the mention of war she physically sagged. It felt as if she’d spent most of her reign on horseback, fighting to save her tiny land from invasion and defeat. And even now, after the empire had finally started to break up following the deaths of Scipio Bellorum and his sons, there were still threats to the Icemark’s liberty in the form of Erinor and her undefeated Hordes. And added even to that was the devastating news about Medea and her fall to the Darkness. There were times when a quiet life lived in obscurity seemed far more attractive than mere power and rule. She thought she’d quite like to have been a baker, with a little shop in a quiet town somewhere. But her pleasant daydream was interrupted by Oskan nudging her.

  “Can’t you do something with your daughter?” he murmured. “It’s so typical that she should spoil the party atmosphere with talk of war.”

  For a moment Thirrin thought he was talking of Medea, but then realised that it was Cressida who was the cause of his annoyance. “She’s your daughter too, you know!” she murmured back. “But yes, you’re right. I’ll distract her and then you can zap her with a happy spell!”

  He smiled. “It wouldn’t work. She’s immune to magic.”

  “She’s probably even more immune to happiness!” said Thirrin. “Try and get Sharley and Mekhmet going, they’ll soon liven things up.”

  He nodded in agreement and turned to the boys. “How are your horses recovering after the sea crossing?”

  “Great, thanks, Dad,” Sharley replied. “Suleiman’s almost back to normal, and so’s Jaspat, isn’t he, Mekhmet?”