by Stuart Hill
The archers, and now the ballistas and rockapults, continued to bombard them, and when the defenders turned their attention to the Black Army, the enemy finally conceded the field and retreated, their drums and fife still playing bravely.
Thirrin climbed slowly down from Tharaman’s shoulders and hugged him in relief and elation as they watched the enemy march back to their camp. But when she looked out at the dead and dying, tears ran down her face. “We can’t take losses like that again, Tharaman.”
“Neither can they, my dear. Neither can they,” he answered wearily, cleaning the blood from his huge paws. “And I can assure you they won’t risk it again, either. If they’re anything like the Ice Trolls, they would have expected us to fold under the ferocity of their first attack, and as we didn’t, they’ll show us much more respect in the future. From now on, General Bellorum will show prudence and no doubt display some of his brilliant tactical skills.”
“Then we’d better be ready for him, Tharaman.”
Scipio Bellorum followed the progress of the battle through his telescopic monocular. He was still seething with anger about the destruction of his cannon by what Commander Aurelius had called “primitive artillery,” but he was sure he would be revenged by a swift victory for his Red Army. He could clearly see his troops advancing in their usual overwhelming surge, and he could also see the young Queen standing among her troops on the first embankment. This surprised him at first, but then he remembered he was dealing with a barbaric race of people who expected their leaders to stand with them in battle. He was also amazed to see quite so many of the reported giant leopards, as well as one or two other creatures that looked like hideously deformed bears, standing among the defenders, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe they would fight. And if the barbaric Queen really thought that troops of the Empire could be intimidated by wild animals, then she had a shocking lesson to learn.
The roar of onset reached his ears a second after he saw it happen through his monocular. And immediately he was forced to revise his belief that the animals wouldn’t fight.
“How absolutely marvelous,” he said aloud. “What a wonderful addition they will be to the Imperial army.”
For the next three hours he watched the battle, impatient for his troops to deliver the knockout blow that would send the defenders streaming back to their city. But it never happened. He was about to give the order to send in the Black Army, the towering elite of his entire force, but something stopped him. As he watched the defenders forcing his troops back down onto the plain, he had the sudden premonition that if he committed his support units, they, too, would be defeated, and such a loss would be too much for his men’s morale. Better by far to withdraw and prepare for battle the next day. He considered himself a patient man, and he was quite prepared to whittle away at the Icemark’s strength until they were ripe for the final blow. He gave the order to pull back, his face a careful mask of unconcern.
He almost believed himself, but not quite. A niggling doubt on the very edge of his conscious mind continued to annoy him even as he mounted his horse and prepared to meet his soldiers as they returned from the field. His officers followed at a respectful distance, their faces as blank as Bellorum’s. Wounded soldiers were being ferried to the hospital tents while their comrades were paraded before the dreaded figure of their general. A near-perfect hush descended on them; only the ragged breathing of exhausted men challenged the fearful quiet.
“Soldiers of the Empire, you fought well against a determined and, may I add, desperate enemy,” said Bellorum in a voice that was warm and encouraging. “However, you were led by incompetents, with little martial spirit and no flair for leadership. Commander Aurelius, step forward.”
The officer stepped out into the enormous silence and stood to attention.
“Explain your actions.”
Aurelius looked up at the general as a sudden gust of wind brought the scent of crushed wildflowers into his nostrils. Breathing deeply he relaxed, amazingly, and said clearly, “I lost a battle against superb soldiers and an army of giant leopards.”
“Have you nothing more to add?” Bellorum asked in dangerously quiet tones.
Aurelius had heard the general interrogating others who had failed in battle, and he knew exactly the tone that would condemn a man to the firing squad. He heard it now. Realizing he no longer needed caution, he spoke his mind. “I lost a battle for the first time in my career, but I feel no shame. The soldiers of the Icemark are worthy opponents who outfought one of our strongest armies. I fully understand that I will suffer the supreme penalty for failure, but I would caution the general: If you continue to execute your experienced officers, you will soon have none to lead your men or carry out your orders.” A gasp rose up from the ranks of tired soldiers. None had ever spoken to the general in this way before. “I would also add that I truly believe that if the general himself had led the attack, the result would have been the same. And, I would respectfully inquire, who then would be the executioner?”
The silence that followed was so complete that the movement of troops on the defenses around Frostmarris could clearly be heard.
At last, Bellorum spoke.
“You’re a brave man, Commander Aurelius, and because of this your family will receive the full rewards and rights of the fallen veteran, and your execution will be swift.”
Then Scipio drew the pistols from the holsters on his saddle and shot him.
27
The noise was dreadful. Wounded soldiers were screaming, and witches shouting to one another so that they could be heard. But worse still was the smell: blood and body parts not meant to be exposed to the light of day, and over even that, urine and feces as soldiers lost control of their functions in the face of unimaginable pain and fear. Oskan helped one of the healers to stop a severed artery in a soldier’s leg from spurting its precious contents all over the floor. Nearby, a young drummer boy with a dreadful stomach wound, inflicted by a spear, managed to smile as the poppy mixture one of the witches had given him started to work. Later, Oskan helped her to mix enough to keep him unconscious until he died.
There were wounded leopards and werewolves, too, their huge bodies needing many new calculations for drug and potion doses as the healers stitched and cleaned their wounds or helped them to the Goddess’s peace.
Wenlock Witchmother stood in the middle of the stable ward watching all around her, giving strength to her people as they fought to save as many lives as they could. Meanwhile, out in the smaller side wards where the surgeons worked, impossibly damaged limbs were amputated with incredible speed as the rough morphine of poppy kept the pain and shock at bay. Blood was everywhere, swimming across the floors, spurting over the walls and even the ceilings in bright crimson swathes. Yet in all this chaos, lives were being saved, and those beyond treatment were helped to peace with the herbs and drugs the witches had prepared.
For more than ten hours the witches, warlocks, and the few doctors considered skilled enough to help labored to reconstruct the bodies and lives that had been shattered by their first engagement with the Polypontians. But at last all that could be done was finished, and a peace descended on the wards. The wounded lay on clean mattresses along the walls, under the watchful eyes of healers who walked quietly around, while out in the treatment areas, teams of cleaners started to scrub away the blood and filth in readiness for those who would inevitably follow.
Finally Oskan left, taking his leave from a quiet Wenlock, who merely nodded when he said good-bye and told her he’d be back the next day. He almost ran from the converted stable block that was the infirmary and out across the yard of the citadel.
Outside, the area was full of jubilant housecarls, leopards, and other soldiers who were busy celebrating the victory. Campfires were dotted at regular intervals across the cobblestones, and Oskan had to dodge from one group to the next, all of whom wanted to tell him about the battle. But at last he reached the doors of the Great Hall and was admitt
ed by the housecarl guards. Oskan already knew that Thirrin and Tharaman were safe, but he still wanted to see them and talk with them, so he hurried across the wide flagstones of the hall and quickly dodged around the throne and through the door into the royal private rooms. Inside, Thirrin was sitting quietly with Primplepuss on her lap, while Tharaman lay sprawled in front of the fire like a huge lumpy hearthrug. Maggiore Totus was busily scribbling away at his notes, adding more to his history of the war and straining to make himself heard as he tried to question Thirrin over the cavernous snores and grunts of the sleeping Tharaman.
Thirrin stood up when she saw Oskan, depositing an annoyed Primplepuss into the deep fur of the Snow Leopard King. “Where have you been?” she snapped. “I’ve been waiting here for hours and not even a message.”
“I’m sorry,” Oskan replied quietly. “But when a soldier’s work is finished, a healer’s is often only just beginning. Those who could be saved are resting now, and those who couldn’t have been helped gently on their way.”
“Oh,”Thirrin said. “I’m sorry, Oskan, I forgot. Selfish of me.”
“No. You’re just tired, like everyone else. Perhaps we should join Tharaman by the fire.”
She smiled gently. “No room, I’m afraid.”
Primplepuss started to struggle her way out of the Snow Leopard’s thick fur, and he awoke with an enormous snort.
“Ah! Oskan, how are my wounded warriors?”
“Fine, most of them. Just deep flesh wounds, really. They should be back on duty within a week. Only one has died. Another is giving us real worries. Turadon, he said his name was, before we managed to put him under with some poppy. He has a punctured lung and broken ribs, but I think we’ll get him back from the brink.”
“Good! Good!” the Thar boomed, stretching luxuriously and filling the room with his massive bulk.
“Tharaman, now that you’re awake, I’d like your perspective on the battle,” said Maggiore earnestly, his stylus poised over the wax-covered boards he used for his notes.
“Um … perhaps later, Maggie. At the moment I’m so hungry I could eat a whole herd of caribou.” He turned to Thirrin. “Shall we see if dinner’s ready?”
“I don’t think it will be, but we can go out into the hall and hurry things along a little.”
“Good idea,” he said eagerly, and led the way.
As they emerged from the royal quarters they could see the servants setting up the trestle tables that would seat the housecarls and leopards who were not on duty at the defenses. Everything was noise and bustle, but around the central hearth two figures sat quietly, seemingly unaware of the activities around them. As Thirrin and her party approached they could see that it was Elemnestra and Olememnon sitting next to each other on a simple bench. They were quiet, and the Basilea was leaning against her consort, while he rested his huge hand on her knee.
Maggie coughed diplomatically, and Elemnestra sat bolt upright and removed Olememnon’s hand. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, we were a little tired.”
“There’s no need to apologize, Aunt. We’re all tired,” Thirrin answered quietly.
“Got your notes with you, I see, Maggie,” Olememnon said, and grinned hugely. “Who’s for a grilling next?”
“Well, you, if you’re amenable.”
“Hungry work, talking to you. After dinner, perhaps.”
“Oh, very well.” The little scholar sighed and sat next to him on the bench.
“Don’t keep him up too late, Maggiore Totus,” said Elemnestra. “He’s got a battle to fight tomorrow, no doubt, and you’ll have me to answer to if he’s made slow through lack of sleep.”
“Rather than risk your displeasure, Madam, I will allow your consort a night of peace,” Maggie replied with a deep bow.
Elemnestra looked at him, trying to decide whether or not he was being sarcastic, but in the end she decided he was beneath her dignity and she ignored him.
“The wine’s good, Maggie,” said Olememnon, raising a flask that had stood by his feet. “Here, have some. You, too, Tharaman, find a bowl.”
A servant brought an extra cup and a bowl and soon all three were drinking deeply. “Not too much,” Elemnestra said, placing her hand over her consort’s. “You must have a clear head tomorrow, I want no … injuries because you’re wine-fuddled.”
He smiled at her affectionately and, despite her protests, kissed her cheek. “I’ll be fine, we’re eating soon, and I intend to scoff enough to soak up a barrel of booze.”
By the time the food arrived, the hall had filled up with warriors of all three races, though the numbers were noticeably fewer as most of the army was on guard, patrolling the barricades down on the plain. As promised, Olememnon ate an enormous amount, beaten only by Tharaman-Thar, who ate an entire ox, bones and all. He sat with a hugely distended belly, groaning slightly, but still found enough room to lap up another three bowls of wine, after which he started to purr loudly.
“Such a pity that grape bushes won’t grow in the snows,” he said sadly. “I’d be more than happy to set up a wine yard on the Icesheets.”
“Vines, Tharaman, grape bushes are called vines,” said Maggie in his best teacher’s voice.
“Vines, then. Are you sure there’s no hardy variety that could stand the cold?”
“Certain.”
“You’ll have to set up an importing company, Maggie,” said Oskan. “You’d make a comfortable living out of Tharaman alone.”
“Perhaps I will. My fortune would soon be made.”
“Not from Olememnon, it wouldn’t,” said Elemnestra. “He’s had more than enough and he’s about to go to bed.”
“Is he?” asked Olememnon in surprise.
“Yes,” his wife answered and, taking his hand, she bowed to Thirrin and Tharaman, ignored Maggie and Oskan, and walked from the hall. Olememnon waved and smiled as he was led off, and Tharaman muttered into his bowl as he lapped his wine.
“What was that?” Thirrin asked him.
“I said, that woman’s about as much fun as a toothache. And she treats Olememnon like a servant.”
“Oh, I don’t think he minds too much. In fact, I think he’s as happy as any man in the land,” she answered.
“I can’t imagine why,” said Tharaman, licking the last drops from his bowl.
“Can’t you? I’d have thought it was pretty obvious. They love each other.”
“Oh, that! Yes, well, I dare say they do, but that’s no reason to treat him like he can’t think for himself.”
“It’s just her way of showing she cares,” said Thirrin. “Oskan, you should get some sleep now. It’s going to be a very long day tomorrow.”
Scipio Bellorum again followed the progress of the battle through his telescopic monoculum. As usual, his army was following his orders to the letter and was attacking the defenses at three different points over a two-mile front. They’d been fighting for more than an hour now, and he thought he could detect a weakening of the central assault just as he had instructed. He smiled and turned his monoculum to the left and then to the right wing of the attack, and noted with pleasure that their fighting rate had increased.
For the next two hours the central assault continued to weaken, while the left and right wings gradually increased the pressure on the defenders and, as Bellorum had hoped, Thirrin sent more and more of her best troops from the center to the wings in an attempt to strengthen them.
“There’s my good little tactician,” he murmured as he watched the housecarls and Hypolitan infantry hurrying to the threatened sections of the defenses. “Commanders Anthonius and Hadrian, prepare your troops and wait for my orders!” he snapped crisply to the group of staff officers who clustered nearby. The two men saluted and hurried off.
“Now, where is that devil-woman and her mounted archers? I’m waiting for you, my dear. Everything is ready.”
The battle raged on, more and more Polypontian troops pouring in to maintain the pressure on the wings, and more and more of
the allies’ best fighters in the center being drawn off to help.
Just three units of housecarls remained at the point where the Empire’s attack was apparently failing, along with ten thousand inexperienced soldiers of the fyrd. More than enough to hold off the Polypontian assault, which seemed to be fading with every passing minute. But the old housecarl commander was uncomfortable about the situation. He was beginning to think there was something suspicious about the way the regiments of pike and musketeers seething around the slope of the defenses before him were unable to push forward. He gave orders for his soldiers to hold their position and not be drawn out. Then he sent his second in command with some of his best housecarls to shore up his right, where there were mainly fyrd soldiers. Gunhilda was the best second he’d ever had. She’d once held off an attack by more than five hundred werewolves with only half as many housecarls and brought most of her command back alive. But that was in the bad old days, and this time, it looked as though the Empire’s troops were getting ready to run.
“Hold your positions,” the commander shouted, but his words were drowned as the Polypontian troops before him turned and fled. With a wild yell the soldiers of the fyrd broke ranks and chased after them, leaving only the thousand housecarls maintaining their shield-wall.
Cursing loudly, the commander ordered his few remaining troops to spread out in an attempt to plug the gap in the line, then he sent an urgent message to Thirrin.
Bellorum was pleased. So far everything was going according to plan; now he needed help from good luck and chance, a general’s two best friends. “Captain Aeneas, prepare your teams and await orders.” He turned in his saddle and calmly beckoned to two riders who were waiting nearby. They galloped away with their messages, and soon two encircling arms of the Imperial troops started to advance onto the plain, while in the center, the soldiers of the fyrd continued to chase the retreating Polypontian army straight into the trap.
