by Stuart Hill
When the soldiers had found them on the road, they’d immediately fed the people and, hearing of Thirrin’s rear guard action, the Basilea herself had ridden on to the forest with supplies. By the time Thirrin and her escort had reached the walls of the city, the refugees had been settled in for more than a day, so most of them had joined the crowds that had lined the main highway leading to the citadel.
Thirrin’s reception had been truly amazing: The Hypolitan saw the Princess as one of their own, which was hardly surprising, Maggiore conceded to himself, considering that her mother had been a member of their governing aristocracy. They’d cheered and waved and, oddly, laid furs at the feet of the horse she’d been given by the Basilea, so that Thirrin was obliged to ride over them.
Maggiore found himself fascinated by the traditions of the Hypolitan, and though he’d only been in the city for two days he’d already found out a lot. As a foreigner who’d spent most of his time in Frostmarris, he was surprised to hear words he didn’t recognize sprinkled through the speech of the people. A dialect he’d expected, but these words sounded like the remnants of a language that was now almost lost. The religion, too, was different. As far as he could tell in his brief scan around, the local gods were mainly female with a dominant Mother Goddess, and this seemed to be reflected in mortal society, with few men in positions of power at any level. For a while Maggiore’s male pride had been affronted, but then his brilliant scholar’s mind had become fascinated, and finally he’d had to accept that the system was settled and ordered and all the people seemed happy enough.
Sitting before his fire in the comfort of his room, he’d reached the inescapable conclusion that the Hypolitan were immigrants, perhaps refugees themselves, who’d settled in the land at some point in the past. Even their names were different, with an exotic wealth of Cassandras and Iphigenias, which glowed like jewels among the background grays of Aethels and Cerdics. Maggiore’s scholarly curiosity had been thoroughly aroused, and he’d ferreted out as much information as he could.
A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up just as Oskan and Thirrin walked in. They’d obviously been debating matters as they’d been walking along, and continued to talk after both raised their hands to acknowledge his presence.
“There’s no way we can afford to sit around during the winter months and hope the Polypontians will just go away!” Thirrin snapped in her usual way, proving she’d completely recovered from the march and the battle.
“I never suggested that,” Oskan answered just as forcefully. “If you’d actually listen instead of assuming I’m going to say something to annoy you, you’d have heard that I thought it was a good thing the people now have a chance to recover before the campaigning season begins again in the spring. I don’t expect you will do anything even remotely like having a rest.”
“No! There’s the fyrd of the north to be called out, and equipped, trained, and housed. There are supplies to be secured and delivered, there are weapons to be made, repaired, and prepared! Rest is a luxury I can’t afford and don’t want!”
“But perhaps My Lady and her young adviser could at least sit down for now,” said Maggiore quietly, and pointed to some chairs that stood against the walls.
Thirrin and Oskan fetched them and placed them next to the hearth. “I’m calling a meeting tonight with the Basilea and her council, so Oskan and I are just getting ready by airing our views. What do you have to say, Maggie?”
“About what particular aspect of the situation?”
“Any of it! All of it!”
“You seem to have the military preparations well in hand. But what of diplomacy and alliance?”
“Ah yes. I’ve decided —”
Oskan suddenly stood up, strode to the window, and threw open the shutters. The howling storm outside burst into the room, driving snow in a great billow toward the hearth, where it hissed and sizzled in the flames. Thirrin and Maggiore coughed and spluttered in the smoky steam and started to shout at Oskan above the roar of the wind.
“Listen! “ Oskan snapped with such authority the other two fell silent. “Can’t you hear it?”
“Hear what?” Thirrin demanded.
“The howling!”
All three sat quietly in the midst of the snow and raging wind and listened as slowly the thin edge of a howl separated itself from the noise of the storm.
“Wolves. So what? They’re hungry and have come down from the hills!”
“No! Not wolves. The Wolffolk. They’re calling for you,” he said forcefully.
Thirrin leaped to her feet. “What are they saying?”
Oskan stood listening for almost a minute, his eyes unfocused as he concentrated. Thirrin could barely contain her frustration, but she didn’t dare say anything until he was ready. At last he blinked and said, “They want safe conduct into the city. They want you to meet them outside the gates.”
“Right!” Thirrin hurried to the door. “Oskan, issue orders for all gate guards to let them through. No one is to harm them in any way, on pain of death! Maggie, tell the Basilea what’s happening and meet us in the main hall.”
As Thirrin and Oskan rode down from the citadel, the wind continued to howl and drive the snow in a stinging hail, like ice arrows that made it almost impossible to see. Oskan found himself wondering how anyone, or anything, could survive such conditions, and yet the Wolffolk had traveled through the storm and were waiting now beyond the gates.
The guards had already received their orders and so were ready to let Thirrin and Oskan out into the blizzard. But as they opened the gates, four snow-encrusted figures stumbled in, carrying what looked like a large stretcher between them. The guards drew their swords, but Thirrin snapped out an order and they sheathed them. The tallest of the strange figures stepped forward and dropped to one knee. It raised its hideous mask of a face, and the Princess could clearly see the mingling of human and wolf in its features.
“My Lady, we must go up to the citadel of the Hypolitan Basilea. We have come to return something to you.” The creature’s voice boomed easily above the screaming wind.
“What is it?”
“Not here, My Lady. It would not be … fitting.” Thirrin glanced at the stretcher and nodded quickly. “This way.”
By the time they reached the main hall, Elemnestra the Basilea and her consort, Olememnon, were waiting. They were sitting in their Thrones of State, wearing their official robes as though expecting foreign dignitaries. Beside them the ten members of the High Council of the Hypolitan stood waiting quietly, as did an anxious-looking Maggiore.
As Thirrin strode into the hall, she couldn’t help noticing that Maggiore and Olememnon were the only men present, but she was so busy trying to appear calm that she had little time to think of anything else.
As Thirrin reached the dais, Elemnestra stood to offer her the throne, but she waved her to sit. The werewolves now stepped forward and placed their burden on a trestle table that stood nearby. The council members murmured at the appearance of the Wolffolk, and the guards around the hall quietly loosened their swords in their sheaths.
Thirrin looked around her, aware of the mistrust in the hall, and felt her temper rising. “These people are my allies and have already shown me great loyalty and trust. If anyone here present mistreats them in word or deed, I will call upon my powers as heir to the throne of the Icemark and I will order their hanging out of hand!” She looked around her fiercely; none would meet her eye. “Good. Then I call on the Wolffolk to speak now. What have you brought us?”
Once again the tallest of the werewolves stepped forward. “My Lady, our burden is heavy and we have carried it far from the battlefield of the south.” A murmur ran through the hall as people realized for the first time that the creatures could speak. “But the weight has been no physical hardship. The Wolffolk could carry ten times the weight for twice the distance and feel no effort. No, the burden has been one of sorrow, knowing what pain we must bring our ally.”
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br /> Thirrin gazed at him steadily, her face pale in the light of the hall’s torches. “What have you brought us?”
The wolfman bowed his head and, turning to the stretcher, he pulled aside the cover, revealing the bodies of Redrought and the Lady Theowin, packed in snow that had perfectly preserved them.
A gasp ran around the hall, and then a perfect silence returned as Thirrin stepped up to the stretcher. Redrought was still wearing his armor, though his helmet had been placed on his chest, and the Wolffolk had also taken time to clean the bodies of any blood so that they appeared to be in a deep and dignified sleep.
Thirrin gazed at her father and remembered the huge man who’d loved cats and fluffy slippers, who’d played with her as a little girl and had told her stories when she went to bed. Her eyes filled with tears as she took the icy-cold hand in hers.
“Dad,” she whispered. “I love you, Dad.” She stooped and kissed his cheek. Then, standing upright, she turned to the wolfman. “What news of the battle?”
“The King defeated his enemies and took their banner. It lies now at his feet. But his army was destroyed in the act of destroying. The enemy numbers were too great, but we believe he knew what he was doing and sacrificed his army to give you time to raise a second host and call on the help of your allies. We Wolffolk were not ready; it takes many cycles of the blessed moon to gather our people; but a few of us went to watch so that we might bring news to you, My Lady. When we saw Baroness Theowin fall and King Redrought killed just as he seized the enemy’s battle standard, we ran to collect their bodies from the field before the soldiers who came on horses after the fighting could take them.
“We have brought them now to you, our ally, and also bring greetings from our king, Grishmak Blood-drinker. He says that the muster is under way and will be ready in the spring, when he will expect your call to battle.”
Thirrin stood silently gazing at the body of Redrought, her face pale and her eyes bright. But then she seemed to collect herself and, looking up, said, “We return greetings and friendship to His Majesty Grishmak Blood-drinker and assure him that the call for battle will be sent with the new campaigning season.” Then she looked at her father again, and added in a voice that began quietly but climbed with a rising power, “But before that, there are pyres to be built, and a hatred to be stoked up to a blazing height that will scorch the Empire of the Polypontus. It will rage and roar through its very streets until the Emperor’s palace itself is an explosion of flames. Let our drive be revenge! Let our weapons be hatred! Let our anger be the power that smashes the Empire!”
At once a huge clamor broke out as the guards beat their swords on their shields, the Wolffolk howled, and everyone cheered. Maggiore was interested to find himself shouting with the rest, and noted wryly that the power of emotion could overthrow even the most objective of minds.
12
The wide square in front of the Basilea’s palace was lined with people. In the center a pyre had been built using thick stakes of oak, layered level on level so that it soared into the sky like a wooden pyramid. Soldiers were pouring oil and other flammable liquids over the already fuel-drenched wood, and draping the battle colors of the Icemark over two platforms that had been constructed at the top. One was set a yard or so below the other and had Baroness Theowin’s striking hawk insignia placed before it, while the topmost one had been dressed with Redrought’s personal device of the fighting bear.
The sky was a heavy, dark presence threatening more snow, and a bitter wind scythed through the silent ranks of people, causing them to draw their winter cloaks tighter about themselves. In front of the masses stood ranks of housecarls, their armor glittering redly in the light of the torches that each soldier held, and from the buildings that faced the square, long banners of mourning snapped and fluttered in the wind, their deep purple almost black against the brilliance of the snow.
The people had been waiting for more than an hour now, and despite the freezing cold they gave no impression of impatience. All of them were aware that they were about to witness one of the most important events in the history of the Icemark. A great warrior-king and his loyal vassal were to be cremated in as spectacular a ceremony as the heir to the throne could muster, considering the circumstances of war and invasion.
In more normal times the dead monarch would have been cremated on the plain before the city of Frostmarris, and once the flames had died, a mound would have been raised over the ashes. But Princess Thirrin had decreed that the ashes of her father, mixed with those of the Lady Theowin, would be gathered in an urn and no burial mound raised until she had returned to the capital at the head of a liberating army.
A slow drift of snow began to fall, settling on the huge pile of wood in the center of the square and adding fresh layers to the frozen and impacted ice that coated every surface. Oskan Witch’s Son had said there would be a light sprinkling but nothing that would interrupt the funeral, so the people put up their hoods and simply hunched their shoulders against the weather.
Suddenly a fanfare of deep-toned horns rang out, and the housecarls snapped to attention. A murmuring buzz ran through the crowds, and every head craned to see along the main road that led to the citadel. In the distance the gates of the fortress slowly opened, and a long procession filed out. Those citizens at the back where the road entered the square now had the advantage, because they could plainly see the Princess Thirrin in full armor, marching at the head of an escort of housecarls and warriors of the Hypolitan. Beside her walked the Basilea, and just behind them came the witch’s son and Maggiore Totus. The soldiers marched in a square formation surrounding a wide bier that was being carried on the broad shoulders of ten werewolves.
A collective gasp rose up from the people at the sight of the Wolffolk marching with the soldiers. Until Thirrin’s alliance with King Grishmak they’d been the sworn enemies of the Icemark, and most citizens still found their presence within the walls of a city frightening and strange. But as the crowd watched the approach of the procession, the huge creatures kept perfect step with the escorting soldiers, and the sense of their restrained ferocity added a dignity to the funeral beyond that of even the most disciplined troops.
A silence descended, broken only by the slow rhythmic tramp of marching feet. None of the citizens wept. Redrought had been a good King, as far as that affected the lives of the people. He’d demanded no new taxes; he’d threatened no new tithes; and his appetites and interests hadn’t put any extra burdens on the society of the Icemark. What’s more, he’d died doing his job, trying to defend the country from invaders. That was something he’d been good at.
But to most of the citizens the King was a remote figure, and it was hard to relate to his death in a directly emotional way. They were more interested in the practicalities of his successor. Would Thirrin be able to defend the country, and therefore their lives, from the invading Polypontians? So far she’d done well, carrying out the evacuation of Frostmarris with skill and control, and then defeating the enemy cavalry that had pursued them. She’d also shown an amazing ability to form alliances with the most unlikely … people.
In many ways the ordinary citizens found it easier to accept the idea of an alliance with the Wolffolk and with the Oak King and Holly King than the ruling aristocracy did. They were realists who were happy to accept any friendship that would save their skins. Only those who knew that one season’s harvest stood between them and famine truly understood that yesterday’s sworn enemy can be working beside you in the field the next day. Only fools skirmish in their backyard when war is knocking down their front door.
In the meantime they watched the slow advance of the funeral cortege. Not only was it free entertainment in the dark days of the winter but it gave the people a chance to gauge the morale of the ruling elite. If they looked worried, the people had every right to be terrified.
The procession tramped slowly into the square before marching a complete circuit of its perimeter. Thirrin’s face was set i
n rigid lines, and both Oskan and Elemnestra, the Basilea of the Hypolitan, seemed preoccupied by other matters. Only Maggiore’s scholarly curiosity caused his eyes to dart from one interesting sight to another as he observed the fascinating funeral customs of the country. The people of the Icemark collectively relaxed. There were no signs of anxiety anywhere on the part of the ruling elite.
As the bier passed close to the crowds, many heads craned to see the bodies of King Redrought and the Lady Theowin. The snow the Wolffolk had packed around them had perfectly preserved them, and they both looked suitably stern and warriorlike. The fact that they also looked as though they were sleeping added further to the emotional distance that the people felt, and a strange carnival atmosphere developed as the crowds began to applaud. Thirrin’s composure slipped for a moment, and she looked at the crowds sharply, but then her expression relaxed. Her father would have probably preferred clapping and cheering to weeping. It was, after all, a sign of appreciation.
The procession then approached the pyre, and the escort of soldiers stamped to a halt, allowing the werewolf pallbearers to march forward and slowly climb the stairway that had been built into the huge stack of wood. The crowd now fell silent as the creatures placed the bodies of King and vassal onto their respective platforms and draped them with their personal banners. As they withdrew, the housecarls began to tap sword hilt and ax haft on their shields. Gently and slowly the sound grew and swelled, rolling around the square as it rose to a massive crescendo that echoed back from the lowering clouds and stone buildings. Then slowly it died away to silence as the Wolffolk resumed their positions among the soldiers.
Thirrin had prepared no speech and had called on no others to speak. In her silence lay her grief. In the lack of speech and oration lay the country’s loss. Quietly she stepped forward and, without turning, held out her hand. The Basilea joined her and gave her a compound bow of the Hypolitan and a single arrow, the end of which had been wrapped with pitch-soaked linen. Thirrin fitted arrow to string and drew it back. She nodded, and the Basilea lit the linen-covered head and withdrew. The Princess raised the bow high and loosed the flaming arrow, and it streaked like a tiny comet against the background gray of the heavy clouds.
