by Stuart Hill
“Yeah, only fair. No point in making bad blood with officers you’ve got to work with,” said Eodred.
“That’s right. Sharley never forgot things like that.”
“You’re doing it again!”
“What?”
“Talking as though we’ll never see him again.”
“Sorry.”
They continued working in silence for a few minutes, then Cerdic said, “I can’t see it happening though: us meeting Sharley again. I think we’ve seen the last of him, Eddie.”
“You don’t know that for sure. You haven’t got the Sight like Dad, or Medea,” said Eodred, a strangely wistful note in his voice. “Sharley’s tougher than he looks, you know. He’ll come home one day.”
Cerdic worked on quietly, his young warrior’s heart aching for the brother he felt sure he’d never see again. After a while he hung his coat of mail on its stand and left his sword unburnished. “I’ve had enough of this. I’ll finish it off tomorrow.”
Eodred watched his brother walk slowly from the armoury. He’d never left any task unfinished in his entire life, so it was deeply unnerving. Eodred considered finishing off the work for his twin himself, but after a few minutes he too put aside his polish and cloth and went off in search of company. Perhaps a few laughs with the lads in the guardroom would help him sleep and prepare him for whatever lay ahead.
Tharaman-Thar and Krisafitsa-Tharina lay in a comfortable tangle before the fire. They’d just eaten an enormous dinner, and a long digestive sleep would have been the perfect conclusion to their day. But both knew they were unlikely to get it. Thirrin was pacing up and down the room, and Oskan was doing his best to sit quietly while his wife silently raged her way from chair to door and back again. Only King Grishmak was truly asleep, his feet stretched out towards the fire and adding their own special aroma to the warm, crowded room.
“Well, can’t you do something about it?” Thirrin finally burst out at Oskan. “You are a warlock!”
For a moment her Consort thought she was referring to Grishmak’s redolent feet, but he quickly realised she was talking about the weather. “Yes, but my speciality isn’t climate. I’m a healer and seer, and only occasionally a caller of lightning.”
Thirrin didn’t need reminding of the disastrous consequences of the last time Oskan had summoned lightning. She could still recall the terrible stench of burnt flesh, and her own grief and panic when she thought he’d been killed. “All right, but this has nothing to do with storms. I only want you to slow down the thaw in the South Riding until we’re ready for Bellorum and his mad sons!”
“Well, if the truth be known, we’ll never be ready enough for that family of military madmen. And besides, the thaw’s perfectly natural. It’s spring at last and the snows are melting at their due time, even though it is a little earlier than I expected. I can’t keep the mountain passes frozen any longer,” Oskan added reasonably.
“We’re as ready as we’re ever going to be, anyway,” said Tharaman-Thar, abandoning all pretence of sleep and raising his huge head. “You’re simply being over-cautious, my dear, as usual.”
“He’s right, Thirrin,” said Krisafitsa. “Come and sit down and let’s enjoy the peace and quiet while we can.”
“I just wish Maggie was here,” said Thirrin, crossing to a chair and finally sitting down. “I don’t know why I let him go, especially when we’re in the middle of a crisis.”
“Because he wanted to,” said Oskan mildly. “What else were you going to do? Chain him to his desk like some sort of slave oracle, and seek his advice whenever you needed it?”
“I suppose you’re right, really,” said Thirrin. “I’m just racked by doubts and contradictions. First I want the passes to stay frozen and blocked by snow, then I just want the invasion to begin and to get on with the war. I want Maggie here to give advice and at the same time I’m glad he’s keeping Sharley safe in the Southern Continent,” she said, falling quiet for a moment and gazing into the fire as the thought of her youngest son filled her with a hopeless sense of longing.
“You’ll be fine once you’ve a row of Polypontian heads to separate from their necks,” said Tharaman with bloodthirsty relish.
“I suppose so,” Thirrin agreed. “And if the thaw continues at this rate, I’ll have the opportunity to do just that in a very short time indeed.”
Suddenly Oskan sat bolt upright. “Quiet!” he hissed, and crossed to the window where he opened the shutters on the cold, clear night. A thin wavering howl sounded mournfully across the night, and Oskan nodded.
* * *
Sharley woke up. It took him a few moments to work the stiff buckle loose before he could unstrap himself and get to his feet. Stretching enormously, he finally realised they were almost static, apart from a gentle rocking motion that barely disturbed the lamps hanging in their gimbals. Maggie was nowhere to be seen.
“We’ve made it! We’re safe,” he said aloud, and laughed. There’d been times when he’d really thought they were all going to drown. But now, peering through the porthole, he saw the harbour for the first time. They’d obviously found a safe haven, and he almost wept with relief. But instead he laughed again, and when he’d calmed down he saw that the sky was blue and still and the day had that odd, slightly dusty smell that meant it was going to be hot. He also noticed that the ship was listing badly, but the lack of shouting and urgency either meant that the Horizon had been abandoned, or that she was in no immediate danger of sinking.
Quickly, he crossed to the door and hurried along the corridor to the stairway at the end, down which sunlight cascaded like a waterfall of light. The noise of the crew working on the stricken vessel engulfed him. Sailors were sawing up fallen spars and cutting through impossible tangles of rigging. Others worked pumps or were cutting away all of the shattered rails and gunnels that had once gleamed so brightly with gold leaf and paint.
Sharley was horrified. The once beautiful ship was a barely recognisable heap of wreckage. And what of the rest of the refugee fleet? He hurried to the stern and stood looking out over the calm waters of the natural harbour where they were anchored. Nearby were two ships that were also badly damaged, but they were of an odd design he’d never seen before. It seemed that no one else from the Icemark had reached the harbour.
“Dhows.” A voice beside him made him jump. “The ships you’re looking at are called dhows,” Maggie explained. “They came in just after us and were lucky to make it. In fact, six others of their type were sunk.”
“And what of our fleet?” Sharley asked, surprising himself with the deep concern he felt for the other ships and their passengers.
“No sign of them so far. But the Captain’s hopeful that some will have reached safety.”
“Only some?”
Maggie looked at him in silence for a second. “Sharley, we’ve just come through one of the worst storms Captain Sigurdson can remember. It’s not impossible that we’re the only survivors of the entire fleet.”
Sharley was stunned. He’d lost his people before he’d even properly begun his responsibilities. “But what can we do, Maggie?”
“Do? We can do nothing at all. Only wait and hope that any survivors find us soon.”
Sharley nodded dumbly, and he hardly noticed the old scholar put his arm around his shoulders. “Not even those who carry the Ring of State can be held responsible for the elements, My Lord Prince Regent. But there is one small nugget of hope. The crew tell me that the storm faded, as they put it, almost as soon as we reached safety. They’d never seen anything like it, apparently. It was almost as though the storm itself gave up the moment it realised it couldn’t get us. Most odd. But this means that any ships still afloat at that time may yet make it to land. Your people could still be safe, and in the meantime, it’s your duty to keep your strength up for when they need you. Come on, let’s go and get something to eat.”
After a good meal and a long drink of fresh cool water brought from shore, Sharley felt much bet
ter. Maggie was right, of course: there was nothing they could do but wait and hope that the rest of the refugee fleet would make it to safety. After all, the other strange ships in the harbour had managed to battle through the storm and most of the Icemark ships were larger than them.
“Maggie, what did you say those strange craft were called?”
“Dhows. They’re ships of the Desert People, from a land far to the south.”
“Why would desert people have ships?”
“Stupid boy, even the most arid and barren of regions can have coastlines,” Maggie answered sharply. “Has my teaching made no impression on you at all?”
“Well, yes. It just never occurred to me that deserts would have water anywhere near them, let alone a sea. I mean . . .” He trailed off into an embarrassed silence.
“You know, the House of Lindenshield makes me despair at times. I could have had a Chair in one of the foremost and most ancient universities of the Southern Continent, and yet I rejected the offer in favour of teaching the Royal offspring of the Icemark. And what have I achieved? A Crown Princess who dreams only of warfare, two ‘shield-wall Princes’ who can barely write their names, let alone a full sentence, and a younger son who believes the seas of the world will only condescend to lap the shores of fertile lands!” Maggie said nothing of Medea; it had been a major relief when Thirrin and Oskan had finally decided that their youngest daughter no longer needed to attend lessons. The memory of her pale, vacant face and empty black eyes staring unwaveringly at him could still bring the little scholar out in a cold sweat.
“All right, all right! I admit it, I’m stupid. But I’m willing to learn. Tell me about these Desert People,” Sharley said, interrupting Maggiore’s thoughts and bringing him back to the moment.
“You’re far from stupid, Prince Charlemagne,” said Maggie, relieved to put aside his memories of Medea. “But you lack both application and a retentive memory.”
“Well, I promise to try and remember whatever you say from now on. Where precisely is the land of the Desert People, and who exactly are they?”
The old scholar settled back in his chair and poured himself a beaker of fresh water – the idea of anything alcoholic made him feel queasy. “Well, where shall I begin? With their history, I suppose. Militarily speaking it’s certainly very rich. The Desert People once had a cavalry that very nearly conquered all the known world. They were feared just as Scipio Bellorum and the Polypontian Empire is feared today – indeed, the sound of their charging hooves was the death knell of many armies and kingdoms, republics and empires. All the lands of the south fell to their unstoppable cavalry.”
“But if they were so famous and feared, why have I never heard of them?” Sharley interrupted.
“Well, the fault can only be your own,” Maggie snapped, annoyed that the flow of his lecture had been disrupted. “Especially as you carry a name that is forever linked with their first and most devastating defeat. If you’d bothered to keep your ears and your mind open, you’d have most certainly heard of King Charlemagne of Gallia.”
“I’ve heard of Gallia, of course, and I know I was named after one of its kings, but I never knew why.”
“Did it never occur to you to ask?”
“I’ve always supposed that if it was important, I’d have been told.”
The old scholar looked at him sharply. “History is important, Prince Charlemagne. It tells us who we are and why we are, and sometimes a little historical fact can have a very large effect on our actions today.”
Sharley was well aware of what Maggie was thinking, but he wasn’t yet ready to admit that he’d allowed his ambitions for military training to overshadow almost every other aspect of his life. So he stayed stubbornly silent and waited for the old scholar to go on.
“The Desert People moved north and invaded Gallia over five hundred years ago, under their undefeated Sultan Abd al- Rahman II. King Charlemagne was determined to defend his land, and in emulation of his enemy trained a cavalry of light and fiery horses, unlike anything that had ever been seen in the north before, or since. Consider your mother’s cavalry, and that of Scipio Bellorum – the horses are huge and heavy, and use their weight as their greatest weapon.”
Sharley nodded, remembering the trouble he’d had trying to control Havoc.
“When the day of battle dawned, Charlemagne sent his infantry to attack the the Desert People – a mistake that many had made against the Sultan, believing that no horse will charge a phalanx of foot-soldiers. But the cavalry of the Desert People were not daunted by the long spears of the pikemen, and they thundered down on the Gallian soldiers, forcing them back across the wide plain until Charlemagne had them exactly where he wanted them.
“The bugle call for the charge was sounded, and the Gallian cavalry swept out of their concealed positions and hit the Desert People in both flanks. Eventually, the Standard Bearer of the Sultan was struck down, and the Desert People lost heart. For the first time in their long and glorious history the signal for retreat was given and they fell back. Eventually they were surrounded by the victorious Gallians and prepared to die. But Charlemagne drew back his forces, and dismounting, he walked alone to stand before the horses of the Sultan. He then called on his fellow monarch to come forward and talk with him, and the two men stood eye to eye, each preparing to hate the other.
“But as they looked at their enemy they each saw not a fiend, but one who in different circumstances could have been a friend. It is said they even smiled and took each other’s hand, and after a time, chairs were found, and food, and the two talked into the night, until at last Sultan Abd al-Rahman II and King Charlemagne agreed that the invading Desert People should withdraw without further harm and never threaten Gallia again.”
“What! You mean Charlemagne let him go! After all he’d done to his people?” Sharley asked incredulously.
“So the legend would have us believe,” Maggiore answered stiffly.
Sharley shook his head in disbelief, but somewhere deep within the recesses of his mind a small note of respect and even shared emotion sounded.
Suddenly, horns brayed deep and loud, echoing across the bay and bouncing back from the surrounding rocks. Sharley rushed to the porthole. The narrow entrance to the natural harbour was in full view and he saw two ragged and broken ships limping into sight. They were being towed by Icemark war galleys, their oars dipping and rising like the legs of disciplined centipedes.
“Maggie! Ships! Ships of the fleet have reached us!” And without waiting for a reply, Sharley limped hurriedly from the cabin.
CHAPTER 10
Three horsemen rode up to the towering wall of ice that stretched across the pass into the Icemark. It was melting fast, and water cascaded about the horses’ hooves as the run-off sought a route from the rocky heights and down on to the fertile plains.
The men sat gazing at the ice, as they assessed how long it would be before they could finally begin their advance into the barbaric land north of the pass. Their horses stood in a loose arrowhead formation, and at the tip sat Scipio Bellorum, with his sons, Sulla and Octavius, behind him.
Scipio was over sixty years old, but years of campaigning had kept his body and mind as strong as that of a man less than half his age. He knew that much of the determination and drive that had kept him going over the years came purely from a need to exact revenge on the Icemark and its barbarian queen, for his defeat and the loss of his sword hand almost twenty years earlier. This time there would be no mistakes. His army was well honed by years of warfare, and even the least experienced of his soldiers had more than three years’ campaigning under their belts. His staff officers were all veterans of the wars that had followed his defeat in the Icemark, and they were as ruthless and as cunning as him. He also had some new weaponry and ideas, gathered from the best that his enemies had used against him over the years. He intended to enjoy himself, but he had learned not to underestimate the opposition, as he’d done in the previous war against the Icema
rk. And this time the barbarian queen was ready for him, with all of her abominations of nature already gathered into her alliance.
He nodded to himself. Oh yes! She was good and her army was strong. They’d already defeated the hideous Ice Trolls that he’d sent against the Snow Leopards. And he’d learned that the alliance was reciprocal; humans would fight for Snow Leopards and werewolves, just as they would fight for humans. Only the Vampires were an unknown quantity, but he wouldn’t allow himself to hope that they’d ignore the call in this coming war. He would proceed as though they were an active part of the alliance; at least then there’d be no surprises.
“Another week, I’d say,” he stated, nodding at the ice barrier.
“Agreed,” Bellorum’s sons said in unison.
“Octavius, prepare your regiments as the vanguard of the invasion . . . Sulla, you’ll be in support,” Scipio said quietly. “Though I don’t think there’ll be much resistance. Reports say the South Riding has already been evacuated.”
Only one of the ten Polypontian spies had survived the winter on the mountains as they crossed into, and then back out of, the Icemark. But he’d lived long enough to tell of empty settlements and skeleton garrisons. Obviously, the barbarian queen was employing a ‘scorched earth’ policy against them. No doubt this would take a literal turn when they entered the land: the garrisons would set fire to the cities and towns, and so deny the invading forces any shelter or supplies.
Scipio hardly cared about any of this. It would save his army a job. Had any of the inhabitants been left behind he would have killed them anyway and burnt the cities. This time the very identity of the Icemark was going to be expunged from the face of the earth. Already the new Polypontian population was waiting behind the army, ready to move in and work the fertile land, build new cities and exploit the natural wealth of the forests and the mineral deposits of the very rocks themselves. He would rename the country Bellora and it would become one of the most productive provinces in the Empire. These people were of good Polypontian peasant stock, biddable, strong, and willing to drain the resources of the wild northern land for the good of the Empire.
