The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark

by Stuart Hill

  “NO!” he shouted despairingly into the unheeding sky, his small voice lost in the clamor of battle. What could be done? By the time the defenders were given orders and had begun to react, it would be too late. Armies moved only as fast as their slowest parts. Then gradually a determination and a certainty grew within him. He must act, and he must act now! He pushed himself away from the wall and raced down the stone steps into the citadel, shouting as he went. He rushed to the stables and found Jenny munching a bag of carrots. She hiccupped in surprise as he leaped on her back without saddle or reins.

  Grabbing her mane, he tugged her head around, and she trotted obediently toward the gate of the citadel. Then suddenly she caught the terrible sense of urgency that was beating in waves from Oskan, and she let out a great squealing bray that echoed around the walls. Laying back her long ears, she thrust her head forward and galloped down through the town, hee-hawing as she went. Soon they reached the gateway to the city, where the party of white werewolves was preparing to join the battle on the defenses.

  “To me! To me! The Queen is in danger!” Oskan bellowed at them as he thundered by, desperately clinging to Jenny’s neck. The Wolffolk instantly fell in behind, easily keeping pace with the wildly galloping mule. Down on the level they hurtled toward the gate in the defenses, the werewolves pulling ahead and bursting through the guard that would have barred their way. Then they were through and out onto the plain. Ahead, Oskan could see the enemy bearing down on the rear of Thirrin’s cavalry, and the alarm was being sounded at last all along the embankments. Olememnon was already leading his infantry out through the gateway, frantically trying to catch up with the mule and the small party of werewolves that were swiftly drawing ahead.

  But the Polypontian army was winning the race. Thirrin and Tharaman would soon be cut off. Oskan shouted and screamed in an attempt to warn the cavalry, but even with Jenny and the werewolves joining in, their voices were lost.

  On they galloped, heading for the rapidly closing area of open plain between the advancing Imperial troops and the defenses. Soon Oskan and the werewolves were fighting their way through enemy soldiers. Jenny lashed out like a trained warhorse and the Wolffolk struck and beat at the soldiers. Such was their ferocity that they hardly slowed, and still they howled and screamed.

  At last, Tharaman seemed to realize the danger and, looking back, he let out a huge roar. The cavalry turned around and reformed. Thirrin circled her sword above her head and they charged back toward Oskan and his party, but it was too late. The enemy soldiers closed the escape route, and Jenny and the werewolves broke through only to join the cavalry in certain death.

  “No!” screamed Oskan in total and utter despair, then all went black as he was knocked to the ground. He came to seconds later. Jenny stood over him, kicking out with her powerful back legs and sending enemy soldiers flying through the air. Grinelda, the huge captain of the white werewolves, stooped down, and carrying him in her arms she ran to clearer ground, her warriors around her. She set Oskan down, and he watched as the enemy bore down on them. In the background, the thunder of cavalry hooves drew closer as Thirrin and Tharaman galloped toward them. But it was too late; the Imperial troops had surrounded them.

  Oskan wept in despair, his frame racked with sobs as he realized they were finished. But then, oddly, two voices sounded in his head, a conversation from his and Thirrin’s past.

  “Can you draw down lightning?”

  “I’ve never tried. Seems a silly idea to me. You could be hit.”

  Could he draw down lightning? Would it be enough? Wenlock Witchmother had said he was the most powerful warlock in generations. Now was the time to find out. He opened his arms wide and threw back his head, staring deep into the clear blue sky. He called on all his strength and forced his mind far and wide questing for power. He ranged over the realms of the four winds, and slowly ions began to gather and accumulate in the air high, high above him. The sky seemed to thicken and roll like muscled water, and then the power started to fall through the sky, crackling and snapping as it tumbled toward the small figure of the boy who stood on the plain, thousands of feet below. It hit him with shocking force, but his thin frame withstood it, shaking and vibrating as the power filled him to the uttermost brim. Opening his arms wide, he held his hands above his head and pointed them, palms open, at the enemy soldiers. With a terrible bursting crash, lightning erupted from his hands and struck the troops before him, blasting them aside, burning and scorching, blackening skin and igniting cloth, hair, and gunpowder.

  Turning slowly, Oskan directed the terrible scything force to carve a swath through the Imperial troops, until an escape route stood open. Then he fell. Every piece of cloth and every hair had been burned from his body. Smoke trickled from his mouth and nose, and his skin was charred black. The cavalry reached him, Thirrin screaming in horror as she looked down on Oskan’s body. Tharaman stooped and picked him up in his mouth as gently as if he were a kitten. Taradan roared, and the cavalry leaped forward, joined by the werewolves and Jenny. They burst through the gap Oskan had punched, and galloped toward the gate in the defenses. But still the enemy came on, snapping at their heels.

  Advancing at a steady trot toward them, Olememnon and his infantry slung their shields, and as Thirrin and her cavalry rode by, the Hypolitan foot soldiers hit the Empire’s troops with a huge roar. The impact echoed over the plain, but the Hypolitans were borne backward by the massive weight of the enemy’s numbers and by their desperation to catch and kill the Queen of the Icemark.

  Olememnon bellowed out the order to stand, and slowly the advance of the Imperial army lost its momentum as the soldiers of the Hypolitan drove their feet into the earth and pushed back against the impossible odds. By this time, Thirrin and the cavalry had reached the gateway and ridden through, but their pace didn’t slacken. Instead, they thundered on to the city, heading for the infirmary and its healers.

  Up on the defenses the ballistas and archers loosed flight after flight of bolts and arrows into the enemy ranks, and slowly the intensity of their attack slackened, allowing Olememnon and his soldiers to fight a retreat back to the gate in the defenses.

  Sensing their advantage was finally lost and that the queenling had escaped, the Empire’s commanders ordered their soldiers back to camp. They withdrew across the plain, arrogant and swaggering in the lack of concern they showed to the arrows and ballista bolts that continued to rain down on them.

  30

  Thirrin ran into the infirmary ahead of Tharaman-Thar, roughly thrusting aside anyone who got in her way and shouting for Wenlock Witchmother. But the leader of the witches was already waiting for her, leaning quietly on her stick, and with two healers in attendance.

  “He’s dead, Mother! He’s dead!” Thirrin shrieked as she caught sight of her.

  The old lady stepped forward and motioned to Tharaman-Thar to lay Oskan down before her. She nodded slowly as she looked at his burned and disfigured body. “He has paid a high price to save you, Thirrin Lindenshield.”

  “I know that! He’s paid with his life!”

  “Shut up, foolish girl! If you really thought that, why did you bring him to me? Do you really think I can raise the dead? Those who are called into the peace of the Goddess stay there until she decides otherwise.”

  The Witchmother turned to one of the healers. “Mirror,” she demanded, and waited with her hand open until a small circular piece of polished metal had been placed in her palm. Then, stooping, she held it before the blackened hole that was Oskan’s mouth. A faint mist gathered on its bright surface. “He lives, of course. He has other duties to perform in this life. Take him to the place prepared.”

  “He’s alive?” said Thirrin, caught between amazement and a knowledge that she’d always believed it from the moment Tharaman-Thar had lifted him from the battlefield. “But even if he survives, he’ll be horribly scarred. Would he want to live that way?”

  “However he survives is the will of the Mother. Do you thin
k she’s so blind that she can’t see the unblemished soul of her son beneath the scarring of his body?” Wenlock said sharply. “Be grateful that his life is destined to continue at the same time as your own.”

  Thirrin looked down on the blackened and oozing body of the boy who’d been through so much with her. His face was unrecognizable, his hands had been completely burned away, his wrists mere stumps that smoked gently, and the rest of his body was charred and twisted beyond any recognition. He looked and smelled like a mutton carcass that had been left far too long on a spit roast.

  She wept silently, the tears trickling down her tightly drawn face. “Where are you going to take him?”

  “To the deepest cellar. A place has been prepared for him,” the Witchmother answered, clapping her hands and watching as two orderlies hurried in with a stretcher and bundled Oskan onto it.

  “‘A place has been prepared’ …? Did you know this was going to happen?” Thirrin asked in quiet awe.

  “Yes, and so did he, at heart. Oh, he didn’t know the precise details, but he knew that he would fall defending you. Not all brave people are soldiers or warriors, Thirrin Strong-in-the-Arm.”

  “I know that, old woman!” Thirrin snapped back with a return of her fighting spirit. “I may be young, but I’m not stupid. Don’t patronize me. I’ve faced death more times in the last few months than you probably have in your entire wizened life, and I’m still here. And if I survive this war, I’ll still be here when the Goddess is unfortunate enough to have your company in the Summer Lands!”

  “That’s for the Mother to decide, not you! Don’t presume that you know her will!”

  “Oh, I assure you I don’t. How could I possibly compete with a woman who seems to have just had a conversation with her? Perhaps you should call her in and we can ask her ourselves. Oh, but I’m forgetting, you’re obviously her private secretary; perhaps you should just have a quick look at her diary and see if it’s convenient.”

  “That’s a terrible blasphemy!” Wenlock Witchmother hissed angrily.

  “Oh no, it most certainly is not! I meant it only as an insult for you alone and your arrogance. Do you think you’re the only one created by the Mother? Or perhaps even you couldn’t be that big-headed. Perhaps you just think you’re the most important of her creations!”

  The two terrible women faced each other for a blazing moment or two while Tharaman-Thar and the others looked on. Then the giant leopard coughed gently.

  “Perhaps now isn’t the best time for this … discussion. The boy is dying before us.”

  Then, amazingly, with much creaking and groaning of stiffened joints, the Witchmother fell to her knees before the young Queen. “The Goddess has chosen with her usual wisdom. This small land is blessed with a very powerful monarch indeed.”

  The two orderlies now seized their opportunity to lift Oskan and head toward the doorway, where a broad flight of steps led down to the cellars. The others followed into the darkness, the healers holding torches to light the way.

  The smell of wet earth enfolded them as they descended into the undercroft. When they reached the bottom of the steps, the orderlies didn’t stop but hurried over to a small doorway almost hidden behind a pillar. Here, another narrower flight of steps plunged deeply into pitch-black where the rich scent of earth billowed around them. The steps were wet, and the hollow sound of dripping water echoed around them; they trod warily as they wound down the spiraling stairway to the very bottom. Here, a natural cave opened up around them and beneath their feet a rich red mud glistened in the light of their torches. Against one of the irregular walls, a small bed had been placed with no mattress or coverings of any sort, and on this the orderlies placed the burned and broken body of Oskan the Warlock.

  He was suspended above the wet earth on a rough trellis of ropes, and as Thirrin looked on, small droplets of water dripped onto his blackened skin. This was a place she’d never been to, hadn’t even known existed, and yet she knew she’d remember it for as long as she was allowed to live.

  The Witchmother walked forward and, after mumbling to herself for a moment, she spoke up clearly. “Remember what you have been told, Oskan, Beloved of the Mother. Death would fall from the sky and healing would rise from the earth. Call now on the Goddess and be made whole.”

  Turning to the others, she said, “We must leave him now. Let the will of the Goddess be done.”

  “How long do we leave him like this?” Thirrin asked, her voice a mere whisper as she fought for control of herself.

  “Until he walks from here alone and unaided.”

  “I see,” said Thirrin simply and, taking a torch from one of the healers, she stood looking down at the disfigured body of her friend. Then she stooped and kissed his forehead.

  “We must return to the war, Tharaman,” she said and, wiping her eyes, Thirrin turned and led the way back up the steps.

  The Polypontian losses had been minimal in real terms — two thousand or so soldiers from the one hundred thousand who had attacked — but the effect on the army had been devastating. They were openly saying that the war against the Icemark couldn’t be won, that the boy warlock would return with hundreds more like him to turn the very power of the heavens against them. Even though their numbers now stood at more than five hundred thousand, with two more full armies on the way, the Imperial soldiers now genuinely believed that they couldn’t crush the tiny defense force that stood between them and victory. Scipio Bellorum had hanged more than three hundred of the loudest mutineers before any semblance of order was regained, and he’d flogged more than a thousand more. Eventually the soldiers were more afraid of him than they were of an enemy who could use lightning against them. This was the way Bellorum controlled his armies. They had to believe the consequences of failure were far worse than anything the enemy could do to them. Only then would they march into the worst kind of horror and fight their way clear, rather than anger their general.

  Once Bellorum had reestablished his control, he called a parade and rode his horse to a low hill where he sat looking down on the massive congregation of fighting men. Pikes bristled like a wintertime forest, pennants and banners snapped and rattled in the breeze, and armor glittered like sparks in the forge of the gods. No army in all of history had ever been assembled that matched its size and discipline, and it wasn’t even at full strength yet!

  Bellorum knew he had reached the peak of his powers, and yet still this tiny barbarian army was holding him at bay. Every move he’d made against them had been countered with a skill and ferocity he reluctantly found admirable. And now his army was wavering on the very brink of mutiny. He looked out at them, knowing that if they chose, they could ride him down and crush him before he’d even have time to express mild surprise. But equally, he knew they would never dare to move against him. He was the general, and they knew their place.

  “The warlock is dead!” he suddenly shouted without any preamble or introduction. “Killed by his own weapon. I watched them carry his blackened body from the field.”

  The army remained deathly quiet.

  “There are no others who have the ability to call down lightning. If there were, don’t you think they’d have used them already? Don’t you think they’d have used them to save the mounted bow-women? No! He was the only one, and he died protecting his Queen. A brave man. He met his death well.”

  Still the silence seethed, and Bellorum knew that the time had come for the grand gesture to restore the morale of his soldiers. “But I intend to make his sacrifice an empty act. I will lead the combined cavalry against the queenling and her ragged troopers and tame leopards. We are one hundred thousand of the world’s best horsemen against six thousand members of a circus act!”

  Overhead a skylark soared into the sky, its triumphant song erupting into the air and falling on the ears of the silent army. This was something new to Bellorum: His soldiers actually felt sympathy for the enemy, even admiration. The sudden realization made him almost choke with fury.


  “The army will remain on parade to witness the destruction of the barbarian Queen!” His voice cut through the silence with a deadly assurance. Then he turned his horse and rode away to the assembly point to await the cavalry. Once the victory was won, they’d cheer and their good morale would once again be another tool to be used to further his plans. This hard-fought war would be won, and the Empire extended to the north, where the natural resources of timber, iron, and brilliant soldiers would help in the future campaigns he was already planning.

  Pain! Deep, tearing, throbbing, needle-sharp, hammer-blunt pain — ripping through his body and through his mind, twisting deep in his guts and slicing at his skin with razors and broken glass. Oskan wanted to scream, but his vocal cords had burned away. He was desperate for water and he could hear it dripping all around him, but his charred tongue found nothing in his mouth but blisters and scorched flesh. For hours he lay on the ropes of the low bed, unable to move, the pressure of the hemp on his destroyed skin sending new agonies deep into his body.

  At last he found the strength to tear his mind from the searing pain, and he prayed to the Goddess for release. And slowly, slowly, his mind faded into the dark, away from the torture of his burns, and he fell into the blessed release of the coma his overloaded nervous system had so far denied him.

  The smell of him filled the cavern, like the ashes of a bonfire that have cooled in the morning dew. His skin oozed pus and clear serum that dripped through the ropes of his bed and onto the mud of the wet floor. Long, sticky tendrils gradually dangled and lengthened down to the glutinous, saturated earth. Eventually, after many long hours, the pendulous stalactites of bodily juices made contact with the thick, rich mud, and at the same time a small spark of consciousness returned to the warlock’s mind.

  He shrank from the agony, but before he could flee, a voice echoed faintly in his head: “Remember what you have been told, Oskan, Beloved of the Mother. Death would fall from the sky and healing would rise from the earth. Call now on the Goddess and be made whole.”