by Stuart Hill
Thirrin and Oskan looked out over the plain from the highest point of the city’s battlements. The moon was half full, and the frozen land glittered under the subtle light like a tray of frosted diamonds.
“Do you remember the journey to the Hub of the World?” Thirrin asked. “It’s odd, but it seems as if it happened only yesterday, and then again in another life, both at the same time.”
“Yes,” Oskan agreed. “Yesterday and years ago. I’d never have believed it while it was happening, but now I feel that it was one of the best times of my life. Nothing to think about but the journey ahead. Nothing else to fear but the fact that we might die, which somehow helped to make everything else seem completely unimportant.”
Thirrin snuggled down farther into her cloak, then said, “Do you know, there was one point when I could have wished the journey would last for all time. We’d just seen the northern lights, the sky seemed on fire, and the werewolves were pounding on through the dark, and I felt completely … at peace. There’s no other way of putting it. I’m sure if we’d died then, we’d have just traveled on into forever….”
Oskan looked at her. “Hey, where’s my warrior-queen, ready to fight for her place in Valhalla?”
“She’s just a bit tired, Oskan. And scared.”
He stopped his jaw from dropping open just in time, but then recovered quickly. “Well, as to that, I bet the most seasoned housecarls are wetting themselves. We’re facing Scipio Bellorum and his disciplined madmen. You’ve got a right to be scared; we all have.”
Thirrin didn’t answer for a while, then when she finally spoke, some of the usual steel had crept back into her voice. “I don’t want you to think I’m scared of dying. It’s not that. It’s not that at all. It’s more that I’m afraid of failing, of letting down the House of Lindenshield. I’m carrying centuries of expectations and responsibilities. Everybody wants me to tell them what to do, and at the same time they want me to live up to the legacy of all the Ironsides, Bears of the North, and Spear Maidens. And sometimes it’s just too much….”
Unable to think of anything constructive to say, Oskan put his arm around her shoulder and said, “I’m happy for you just to be Thirrin.”
At that moment the heavy tread of a housecarl sounded outside, and they leaped apart as though scolded. Approaching along the narrow walkway was the captain of the guard, and with him walked Tharaman-Thar.
“Report, Captain Osgood,” Thirrin barked a little too sharply.
“All’s quiet, My Lady. Apart from one idiot who slipped on the steps and has probably broken his wrist. If My Lord, Oskan, could have a look at him —”
“My Lord Oskan has enough to do without tending to every half-drunken housecarl who misses his footing on the ice.”
“It was a cavalry trooper, actually, Ma’am,” Captain Osgood answered.
“Well, whoever!” Thirrin snapped again. “My adviser’s too busy.”
The captain saluted silently and moved on to complete his rounds, leaving Tharaman-Thar to look searchingly at his ally.
“I’ve been thinking about the healing side of things, Thirrin. Captain Osgood has just reminded me,” said Oskan. “We’ve got most of it organized, but the witches with their healers’ skills aren’t here yet, and we’ve still got a way to go before the infirmary’s ready. Converting an old stable to a place of healing takes a lot of work, and I’ve been shirking my share of the effort. I think I’d better go and help.”
“Whatever you think is necessary,” Thirrin answered, recognizing the good sense of his words but still in an uncertain mood after Oskan’s embrace.
“Good, I’ll get on to that now, then. And while I’m at it, I’ll take a look at that trooper’s wrist,” he said, and scurried off as though feeling guilty about something.
“The Queen and her Warlock seem uneasy,” said Tharaman-Thar when they were alone.
Thirrin looked at him, annoyed. “It’s quite bad enough being only fourteen without having to fight a war and run a country as well. Do you wonder that ‘the Queen and her Warlock seem uneasy’?”
“No, I suppose not,” said the leopard. “But sometimes even warriors have to admit they’re just people before all else. And queens who are still girls, and warlocks who are still boys, should allow themselves to be young once in a while.”
“We haven’t the time, Tharaman.”
“No, I suppose not. There are many who are looking to a time after the war to start living their lives again.”
“If that’s an unsubtle attempt to tell me there are people worse off than myself, save yourself the effort. I’m well aware of that, but it doesn’t make it one bit easier to deal with my own problems,” Thirrin answered irritably. “To be really honest, I think if anybody did derive comfort from the fact that ‘there’s always someone worse off than yourself,’ they’d have to be a pretty sad and sick individual. If I’ve sprained my wrist, I’m not made happier by the thought that someone somewhere has broken their leg!”
“Well, that’s telling me,” said Tharaman humorously. “Now that I’ve been put thoroughly in my place, might I humbly suggest that we go inside and have some more of that delicious mulled wine we had earlier with Olememnon?”
Thirrin suddenly smiled and hugged the huge leopard. “Oh, I’m sorry, Tharaman. I’ve been snappy with everyone recently. I suppose I’m fed up with waiting for things to start happening. I just want to get on with it and reach whatever conclusion is destined.”
“Well, that goes for me, too. But while we’ve got a breathing space, let’s try and enjoy it.” A deep rumbling purr vibrated through his chest, and he laughed. “Olememnon has challenged me to a drinking contest. The first one to fall asleep is the loser. I think I’ll take him up on it now.”
“Is that a good idea? Elemnestra won’t be pleased.”
“Won’t she? Good. Come on, you can be referee.”
24
Spring slowly awoke from its winter sleep, stretching out its greenery and new life from the south. Rivers and streams started to flow fiercely with snowmelt, and the earth began to emerge from the deep layer of ice as the cold released its iron grip.
On the battlements of Frostmarris, sentries could smell the rich soil of the forest and the green of new growth when the wind was in the right direction, and everywhere wildflowers were raising delicate petaled heads to the sun. At first the contours of the land were blurred under a shimmering white haze of snow flowers, but gradually, as the temperatures began to rise, other colors seeped from the earth: cool blues, brilliant yellows, and rich, fiery reds. Soon the woodlands and plains around Frostmarris were steeped in a weaver’s workbag of colors and lay open beneath the sun like the page of a beautifully illuminated manuscript. From the walls of the city, the housecarls would watch as the Snow Leopards, unaccustomed to a world without ice, raced and capered over the fields of dazzling color, the height and distance making them look like kittens playing on a richly woven carpet. Out on the plain, the engineers could now dig the defensive embankments and trenches with much greater ease as the frozen land thawed. The protective rings around the capital now reached in three rows from the Great Road and the eaves of the forest in the south, then swept in a large unbroken arc east, before slowly turning back on themselves to flow west to a point north of the city and higher up the Great Road. The engineers, under instruction from Queen Thirrin, extended the ditches and embankments only a matter of a few yards into the Great Forest but, oddly, the undergrowth around and between the open ends of the defensive rings seemed to grow to an incredible density in a matter of days.
Now that travel was so much easier, the fyrd began to march in from the outlying towns and villages, boosting the Icemark’s defending armies to almost sixty thousand. The city and citadel were soon loud with orders and marching as the fyrd was retrained to reach the new standard that was now expected. And once again the Snow Leopards had to get used to the open-mouthed awe of people who had never seen such amazing creatures.
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br /> But with the new season and hope came ominous reminders of Scipio Bellorum. The road from the south was soon crowded with refugees fleeing from his soldiers. His war had begun, and the land was being ravaged. The first town had already fallen in the new campaign, and among the civilians were several contingents of housecarls who’d withdrawn in the face of hopeless odds to act as a rear guard for the refugees and to fight again in the army of the Queen. These soldiers gave valuable information to the commanders of the defense force, and Thirrin, hearing their news, sent out calls for archers, particularly those who used the longbow.
After being rested for a few days, the refugees were sent north to the Hypolitan province away from the immediate danger of attack, and the defenders looked grimly to the south. The Wolffolk spies continued their relay of information and it made uncomfortable news. Polypontian troops were moving through the pass in massive numbers, and though the besieged cities and towns resisted fiercely, news was soon coming in of their capture, one by one.
This was the hardest part for Thirrin. She wanted to take her army and strike south at the invaders, but common sense told her that the only hope was to fight from their strong defensive position and wait for the allies to arrive. And that was another problem: Rumors were beginning to circulate among the soldiers that the werewolves and Vampires would never come, that their hatred for humans was too great and they would gladly watch the Icemark destroyed. Thirrin and Oskan did their best to quash this scare-mongering, pointing out the loyal white Wolffolk who were working as scouts and as part of the message relay. But it was no good; most thought they were just a decoy on the part of the Werewolf King, offered up as a sacrifice to the greater good of seeing the Icemark finally fall. If the defenders believed the allies really were on the way, they’d stand and fight more confidently and effectively.
But despite all of this pessimism, most of the army was resigned and even eager to fight. They wanted to do as much damage to the Polypontian war machine as they could. There was pride to be gained in bravely facing the best army the known world could field, and if they could bloody their noses, they’d be remembered long after the war was over.
Thirrin and her advisers came to the conclusion that this attitude was the best they could hope for, and worked to stoke up a will for revenge that would add fury to the resistance. Elemnestra was particularly good at instilling bloodlust in the soldiers, leading out her squadrons of mounted archers in a display that had any spectators baying and cheering as though they were watching a race. Sweeping in at an angle, the archers would bear down on a line of target stakes driven into the earth, guiding their horses with their knees and shooting a hail of arrows as they came on. As they neared the targets they would gallop parallel to them, again loosing a devastating flight of arrows into the stakes as they thundered by. The squadron would then turn to sweep by from the opposite direction before galloping away, turning in their saddles to loose yet more arrows into the targets. This was how to stop the Polypontians! This was how to show them that the soil of the Icemark cost dear! Every soldier who watched the displays was set alight with a need to strike hard at the Empire and push it back through the mountain pass to its own lands.
But the regiment of Hypolitan women, under their commander Elemnestra, never once acknowledged the adoration they received from the soldiers who watched them. Whenever they returned to the city and trotted through the streets, their faces were always sternly set and they looked neither right nor left as they made their way to the citadel. These soldiers were the elite of the Hypolitan army. They had dedicated their lives to serving the Goddess in the military field, and as such only their commander, the Basilea of the province, was allowed to marry.
At least half of the Hypolitan army was made up of women, usually fighting alongside the men in mixed regiments or in companies twinned with male divisions that complemented the others’ fighting skills. But it was the exclusively female squadrons of mounted archers that were considered the greatest of the great. They had kept alive the purity of the Hypolitan culture and lived as their people had first lived in the mountain strongholds of their long-ago home. They were proud and powerful, and their brightly embroidered uniform of pants, quilted jackets, and scarlet caps with cheek flaps had remained unchanged for hundreds of years. And as the housecarls of the Icemark watched them trot by, many could see the familiar features of their own Queen Thirrin in the stern young faces with their high cheekbones and ice-gray eyes.
But despite the dark elation the soldiers felt as they prepared for the coming clash, many still muttered that the allies would never come and that the Polypontian forces would overwhelm them. And as though to confirm the military prowess of their enemy, the refugees from the south continued to flood into Frostmarris with tales of cruelty and vast armies.
It was one particularly bright day of late spring when the last exiles staggered in. They’d come from Barrowby, the final city of the Southern Riding that had been holding out against Scipio Bellorum. Before the Imperial soldiers had driven the assault home, the governor of the city had opened a secret postern gate in the walls, and the civilians, along with an escort of housecarls, had crept out under cover of darkness. Even so, all would have gone badly if they hadn’t been picked up by a party of werewolf scouts and led to the safety of Frostmarris.
Thirrin had spent the morning with Oskan, interviewing the exiles and trying to gain every last detail about the Empire’s army. But they learned little that was new, and rode back from the refugees’ temporary encampment feeling disappointed and worried.
“Bellorum has control of the south now. His rear is secured, and he can march on us whenever he likes,” Thirrin said bitterly.
“Nothing different to worry about, then,” Oskan answered, determined to offset Thirrin’s glum mood by being as optimistic as he could.
“No, I suppose not. Just the usual impossible odds against a general who’s never been defeated, and a highly trained, hugely motivated army, against which we’re pitting a semi-trained militia. Nothing to worry about at all, really.”
Oskan suddenly kicked his legs in frustration, causing Jenny to hiccup in surprise. “Look, the housecarls and the Hypolitan are hardly ‘semi-trained militia,’ as you put it! The one set battle that’s been fought between the Empire and Icemark armies ended in a draw when your father wiped them out just after Yule. And the real half-trained militias defending the cities and the towns of the Southern Riding made such a fight of it, they’ve delayed Bellorum’s campaign by weeks! Just imagine what we can do with our trained army and new allies!”
Thirrin remained quiet as horse and mule walked slowly back toward Frostmarris. Finally she said, “I know you’re right. We’ve got at least half a chance. I just need a place to say what everybody else is saying. And you’re it, I’m afraid. And if you ever repeat anything you hear from me, I’ll personally cut out your tongue.”
She stopped and looked across the plain to the Great Road. “There’s another supply train arriving from the north. Come on, I’ll race you to it.”
Her warhorse thundered off, leaving Oskan standing, but then Jenny leaped forward, taking him by surprise, and galloped after them. The determined mule had almost caught up with Thirrin and her charger when they reined to a halt at the road. Thirrin smiled at Oskan in approval, until she saw him grimly hanging on to Jenny’s mane with his eyes squeezed shut.
“I was going to congratulate you on your brilliant horsemanship, but I see all of the credit belongs to your mule.”
Jenny brayed loudly in acceptance of the compliment and started to graze on the carpet of wild spring flowers.
Thirrin acknowledged the salutes of the cavalry escort that led the supply train, and watched as it headed for Frostmarris. Then she noticed a small figure sitting in one of the wagons. “Maggie!” she called. “What are you doing here?”
She urged her horse forward and drew up alongside the vehicle, which seemed to be carrying a load of turnips for cattle feed. The
old man smiled and waved. “What am I doing here? Well, I’m joining you in preparation for the arrival of the dreaded Scipio Bellorum. Any day now, judging by the werewolf reports.”
“And what exactly do you intend to do when he does arrive?”
“Observe, make notes, and prepare to write my history of the war. Somebody has to record the facts for posterity.”
“You’re convinced it won’t be a Polypontian scholar, then?”
“Quite convinced. The alliance will sweep the Empire from the land!”
“Maggie, I do believe you sound rather fierce,” said Oskan with a grin.
“I am fierce,” the old man replied with energy. “If I were twenty years younger, I’d be fighting alongside Olememnon and reveling in the glory!”
“There’s not much glory to be had in killing the young men and women of any country, Maggie, “ said Thirrin quietly as she remembered the battle in the forest against the Empire’s cavalry.
“No,” Maggiore agreed. “But there are times when, perhaps, it’s best to pretend otherwise. Especially when war has already started, and the most successful and ruthless general ever known is intent on destroying your people and stealing your land.”
“You’re right, as usual, Maggie. I’m glad you’re with us,” said Thirrin.
They rode toward the city through a multicolored ocean of spring flowers, the lumbering wagons pitching and rolling over the ruts like flat-bottomed ships.
The next day, one of the last convoys from the north traveled down the Great Road. The engineers waiting to cut the ditches and embankments through its wide paved surface — and so finally close the defensive ring — watched in awe as it passed. Many of the workmen even bowed and called for blessings from the travelers, and some of the younger ones smiled and waved back at the engineers. These were the Witches of the Icemark, answering the call for help from Oskan the Warlock. At their head strode Wenlock Witchmother, still bent double over her staff, but moving along at a tremendous rate; with them lumbered wagons carrying the herbs, medicinal plants, and equipment for the healing part of their deep and intricate craft.
