by Stuart Hill
“Weary work waiting for important types to turn up,” he said. Cressida only grunted moodily in reply. He went on, “Especially when other important types insist that you turn up too early and wait for bloody hours before things get going.”
Cressida grunted again, but then added, “You’re an important type too.”
“I suppose,” Grishmak agreed. “But I don’t expect anyone to wait around for me. Then again, Tharaman and Krisafitsa don’t either.”
“No. I think we can only blame my mother for this.”
“Perhaps, but it’s not really surprising. The Snow Leopards are pretty important to the war, and besides . . .” Grishmak paused as he considered how much he should say in front of the Crown Princess.
“And besides, she’s probably half mad with the need to strike back at Bellorum,” Cressida finished for him.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But the vicious old sod nearly did for us last time, and witchcraft or not, your mother’s military pride has been well and truly dented. She wants revenge, and she’s froth-at-the-mouth desperate to get it. Not that your mother’s lost it, or anything,” he added hurriedly. “It’s just that a few months ago she’d have ridden north herself, way beyond the Great Forest, to meet Krisafitsa and her army en route, and she wouldn’t have spent half the morning snarling at the housecarles as she did today. Loyalty like that deserves more respect. Still, they’re loyal enough to know she means nothing by it. Give her another battle to fight and a glimpse of that old pirate Bellorum, and she’ll be back to her old self.”
Cressida nodded; her mother had been . . . distorted somehow by the terrible battle. They all had, but as Queen, Thirrin’s reactions were bound to be more obvious and more closely watched. Even so, Cressida had no doubt that she’d recover; she just needed a little more time. If only she could get it.
A sudden howling from the werewolf relay announced the arrival of the Snow Leopards, and almost immediately Tharaman and Krisafitsa emerged from the trees along with Olememnon, Captain Skull-cruncher and the other humans and werewolves of the escort. Then into the brilliant light of the Icemark afternoon marched the Snow Leopard army: rank after rank of the giant cats in strictly disciplined order, all trotting forward in regimented step.
A murmur rose up from the warriors waiting to greet the reinforcements, but Thirrin remained silent and rigid on her horse as they approached. A fanfare brayed from the housecarle units, and the Ukpik werewolves howled a greeting. Thirrin gave a small nod and the cavalry eased into a slow walk. This was gradually raised to a trot, then to a canter, until finally Thirrin drew her sword, and horse and Snow Leopard thundered across the plain letting out the coughing bark of their challenge and singing the fierce cavalry paean. Tharaman and Krisafitsa rose up on their hind legs and roared and the cavalry slid to a halt in a flurry of flying stones and billowing dust.
Thirrin leaped from the saddle and strode forward to meet the Thar and Tharina who stood waiting, their thunderous purrs rumbling over the plain. “Welcome back, Krisafitsa,” she called. “And welcome to your army. When can they begin training for cavalry tactics?”
“Immediately, if need be, my dear. But I thought a day or two of rest might be in order after their long march,” said Krisafitsa, eyeing her old friend curiously.
Thirrin stopped and shook her head. “I’m being hasty again, aren’t I? No, of course they can have a rest. Bellorum’s quiet at the moment, licking his wounds and building up his forces, no doubt. Come on back to the city – a feast of welcome’s waiting.”
She turned to walk away when Krisafitsa’s polite cough made her turn back. “And how are you, Thirrin? How are Eodred and Oskan?”
“Fine, fine. We’re all fine,” she answered airily, but then her composure slipped and she hugged the great cat, burying her face in her fur.
“Shall we go back to Frostmarris and have a good oldfashioned chat?” said Krisafitsa, nuzzling her friend’s head. Thirrin nodded, then wiping her face, she said, “Yes, I’d like that, but I have to announce something first.”
The Tharina nodded to her mate, and Tharaman roared the order to make the ranks stand to attention. After a few seconds the Snow Leopard army stood silently as Cressida, Grishmak and Oskan approached and greeted Tharaman and Krisafitsa. Then, remounting her horse, Thirrin trotted to a point equidistant between the Snow Leopard reinforcements and the welcoming troops.
“Warriors of the Alliance, all of you know of the Crown Princess’s brilliance in the last battle against Scipio Bellorum and his sons. Not only did she and King Grishmak destroy their army, but she also undoubtedly saved the lives of thousands of your comrades, as well as myself, Tharaman-Thar and Krisafitsa-Tharina. In acknowledgement of this, the High Command is in full agreement that Cressida Striking Eagle should be named as Second-in-Command of the cavalry, where she will ride with myself and the Monarchs of the Icesheets. She will also command a personal squadron fighting under its own banner.” Here she paused and nodded at a trooper, who rode out from the ranks, unfurling as he came a battle-flag on which the image of a striking eagle flew above the running leopard and galloping horse of the cavalry. “Welcome now your new Commander.”
Slowly, a low murmur grew amongst the ranks of the cavalry as the human troopers gently tapped spear on shield, until the sound swelled in rattling power and rolled into the air. To this cacophony, the Snow Leopards added their coughing bark, and the huge crescendo of noise rolled across the entire Plain of Frostmarris, until gradually it died away to silence.
Thirrin then drew her sword, and standing in her stirrups she raised her voice to battle pitch. “The enemy will fall before us, like wheat before the scythe! Blood! Blast! And Fire! Blood! Blast! And Fire!”
The warriors immediately responded, booming out the war cry of the Icemark until it echoed back from the walls of the city. Cressida’s face blazed with pride. She rode forward to thank her mother and acknowledge the cheering of the allied army. Then, her blood singing through her veins, she took up her position at the head of the newly formed squadron. Commanding even a unit of the cavalry of the Icesheets was better than having her own regiment. In fact it was almost as good as having an entire army!
But then, whispering through her moment of triumph, the image of Eodred appeared. This was something to tell him! This was something to bring him back to reality! She was even prepared to use jealousy to shock him out of his grief-stricken torpor. Better to have a brother who was green with envy and functioning in the world, than one who sat brooding in his room refusing to communicate with anyone.
Another fanfare rang out, and the escort and Snow Leopard army formed up to march into Frostmarris. Cressida rode proudly at the head of her squadron, planning exactly what she’d say to Eodred for maximum effect.
Medea watched from her tower room as the warriors approached across the plain. Ever since Oskan had almost caught her in the Magical World, she’d been lying low and had hardly used her Gift at all. In fact, she’d only used her psychic abilities once – to speed the healing of the arm that had been injured by Oskan when she’d made her escape back to the physical world. Now, even the charred skin and scarring were starting to fade. Obviously he hadn’t seen through her disguise, because he hadn’t confronted her, and now all she had to do was hide her injuries from him, which wasn’t difficult under a long-sleeved dress. Even so, she wasn’t ready to risk trying anything else yet. Her father was just too powerful a warlock; she couldn’t face him again.
She leaned further out of her window, and caught sight of Oskan. It was almost as though her thoughts had conjured him up, and there he was walking slowly across the courtyard of the citadel.
She almost panicked. Her instincts told her he was heading for her tower, but then her icy calm reasserted itself. He knew nothing. All she had to do was play the role of the studious daughter and she’d be safe.
After what seemed an age of tense anticipation, the rattle of the latch on the lower door echoed up the spiral s
taircase, and she quickly sat at her desk and opened one of the books that were stacked high on its dusty surface. As Oskan’s measured step climbed slowly to her room, she buried her face in her book.
For several long moments she pretended not to know he was standing in the doorway, then turning the page, she looked up. “Oh, Father. Come in.”
Oskan crossed the room to a small chair that stood by the window and sat down. He had come because there was a dark secret deep, deep in his mind that he hardly dared acknowledge. Had Medea already made that most terrible of choices? But how could a father suspect his own child of being responsible for so many deaths? And, especially horrifyingly, the death of her own brother?
“Medea, how are you?” he began carefully. “None of the family have seen you for days.”
“No . . . I’ve been observing the war and deciding how I can . . . help. The diplomatic mission to Their Vampiric Majesties was quite eye-opening. But I fear the time for diplomacy and politics is past. The armies are marching and . . . and people are dying.”
Oskan held her blank gaze. Perhaps he was wrong. His mind reached out, desperate to find that she was innocent. But before he allowed himself to See, he withdrew, disgusted with himself and his suspicions. “There are many roles for a powerful Adept like yourself. But perhaps your skills will come into their own once the fighting’s over.”
“Yes, yes. Perhaps they will.” For a moment she was surprised to feel a twinge of guilt and even regret. But she ignored them. Why should she be sorry for actions against a land and people she didn’t recognise as her own? “I’d be more than ready to help rebuild whatever survives the war.”
“If anything survives at all,” Oskan said and watched to see her reaction. Anything! Any tiny show of emotion for the danger her family and country faced would convince him of her innocence.
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll win,” she said, too briskly.
“Are you? I’m glad.”
She looked up, alerted by her father’s flat tones. “Well, of course we’ll win. Anything else is just unthinkable.”
“Have you received a premonition, or any other indication?”
“No . . . no. I’m just certain, that’s all.” Her hand grasped the book in her lap until her knuckles showed white. He knows! He knows!
Oskan’s eyes seemed to bore into her head, even though she knew he wasn’t using his Gift to search her mind. But if he already knew she was guilty he wouldn’t need to use psychic probing, would he? She almost broke then, and prepared to throw herself at his feet to ask forgiveness.
“You didn’t come to Cerdic’s funeral. Your mother was hurt,” he said quietly.
Medea grasped at the slight change of subject and allowed herself some small hope. “No . . . I couldn’t. I mean . . . Cerdic dead! How could I believe such a— if I’d gone to the funeral I’d have to accept it, wouldn’t I? I didn’t see his body; I didn’t see him buried . . . I can still hope it’s all a mistake and he’s still alive somewhere, perhaps injured in some way; a bang on the head that’s affected his memory. Who knows? Allow me that. At least allow me that!” She trembled under the terrible pressure of her father’s scrutiny and the tension caused her eyes to fill with tears. She blinked and they coursed slowly down her cheeks.
Oskan slumped in his chair. At last, emotion! He almost shouted aloud for joy. Medea felt sorrow for the loss of her brother! In desperation he seized the moment and thrust aside his suspicions.
After several minutes of savouring a deep sense of relief, he slowly climbed to his feet and crossed to where she sat. “Medea, you know as well as I that nothing is ultimately lost. Cerdic exists still, striding the moonlit fields of the Summerlands, drinking mead in Valhalla. Only his body was broken; his mind lives on.”
He took her hand and kissed it, then with a sad smile walked slowly to the door. Medea watched him go and listened as he descended the staircase. She was exultant. She’d fooled him! She was safe! No one would suspect her now, not when the greatest living warlock said she was innocent.
A wide smile crept across her sallow face.
Scipio Bellorum was sitting in the Great Hall of the Guild of Weavers in Barrowby. “With the Icemark we must predict the unpredictable,” he said, calmly pouring himself a goblet of wine. His ever-simmering rage was barely hidden behind a smile. Most of the town around him was in flames, but the artisans’ quarter had been left intact as billets for the General and his officers.
“Impossible, you might rightly argue, so let us amend our phraseology and say: with the Icemark there’s a need to preempt the unpredictable; a need to prepare for every possibility.” He smiled thinly around the table at his sons and senior staff officers.
“But, Father, how could we possibly have prepared for the Crown Princess’s completely unexpected relieving army? And it’s ridiculous to think we can pre-empt the unpredictable in future. The only way to do that would be to have an entire army in reserve!” said Octavius Bellorum, holding his father’s icy stare with confidence.
“If, as you suggest, that is the only way to prepare for all eventualities when fighting these barbarians, then that is exactly what we shall do,” said the General with steely precision. “We have sufficient numbers to keep fifty per cent of our forces in a support role, ready to respond to any eventuality, and still be strong enough to crush the opposition. Commander Domitus, you and the Logistics Corps will formulate plans to this effect as of now. I want names of regiments that will fulfil this supporting role; I want numbers; I want strategies designed to place them in the most effective position at the onset of battle and I want tactics that will move them into fighting positions with power and precision as and when they are needed. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” Domitus answered confidently.
“Then I suggest you withdraw and begin immediately. I’ll expect a working report in two days’ time. Is that clear?”
“Sir!” The Commander stood, saluted, and hurried from the room.
Commander Octavius inclined his head in acknowledgement of his father’s ability to respond to any situation. There was nothing new in keeping troops in reserve to react to the enemy’s tactics, but appointing an entire army as support would need superb tactical control and discipline.
“I’m willing to command the reserve,” Sulla said, in the sort of voice a newly opened tomb might have. “The shock of onset would be enhanced by fear.” He almost smiled. “And I’m good at fear.”
The General nodded. Of his two sons, Sulla had inherited the truest Bellorum attitude. Octavius was a superbly skilled soldier, but Sulla actually enjoyed killing. Unlike many commanders, he wasn’t content to sit aloof from the battle and watch his tactics come to fruition; he had to be in the front line taking lives and terrifying the enemy. He’d often fight without a helmet, knowing that the sight of his raging face and wild black hair was sometimes enough to make the enemy break ranks and flee.
“Very well,” said the General. “Your reputation would be our most effective weapon. I appoint Commander Sulla as Martial of the Shock Regiments.”
Of all the tactics and weapons at his disposal, General Bellorum was of the opinion that only one might be more effective than his son’s dark reputation. And, after months of delay, that weapon was now almost ready for action. It would be used first of all against the remaining four cities of the Five Boroughs. Any problems and hitches could then be ironed out before they marched on Frostmarris. His new killing machine would sweep all before it. No shield wall, no werewolf phalanx, no human and Snow Leopard cavalry could stand against it. All would die. All would die in fire.
CHAPTER 19
Sharley ached! His back ached, his arms ached, his sides and shoulders ached, even his hair seemed to ache! But worst of all were his legs, particularly the gammy one, which actually throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. He pulled back the covers on his bed and looked at it, just to check if it was actually pulsating. But, of course, it wasn’t. He slumped back on his pi
llow, trying to find a comfortable position, and ran over the events of the last few days.
Most prominent was Crown Prince Mekhmet. It had been his idea that Sharley should train with the palace Dancing Master, of all people. It happened during their second meeting when Mekhmet had invited him to lunch in his quarters.
Just before the appointed time, Sharley had been ushered into the Prince’s private apartments. Immediately, a small youth had appeared, wearing creased white trousers and a simple white shirt, and it had taken Sharley a few moments to realise that this was Prince Mekhmet, the very same person he’d met the day before with his courtiers. Gone were the bejewelled turban and the elaborately embroidered waistcoat, and the beard that Sharley had been so envious of looked much less impressive uncombed and with bits of fluff in it.
They had both suddenly been beset by a crippling shyness that robbed them of speech. But then they’d grinned at each other. “Hello,” said Mekhmet at last, and having broken the silence he seemed to regain his confidence. “Come in, come in. Lunch is waiting.”
He led the way across the courtyard, and into a smallish room furnished with low divans and compact mother-of-pearl inlaid tables. “I hope you don’t mind, but I look after myself in here. I don’t have any servants, courtiers or grovelling. It’s refreshing somehow.”
Sharley realised what an honour it was to be invited to Mekhmet’s private bolt-hole, and he warmed to him again. “I’m lucky, I suppose; at home in the Icemark we don’t have personal courtiers. The servants work for everyone, not just for me or anyone else in the family.”
“Tell me more about the north,” said Mekhmet, pouring two goblets of sherbet. “Is it true that there’s snow even in those parts where there are no mountains?”
“Yes, in the—” Sharley realised that he didn’t know the word for “winter”. “In the time when the days shorten and the sun becomes less strong and the trees are bare.”
