by Stuart Hill
Under the rigid mask of his Princely face Mekhmet was in a state of shock. Never had he witnessed such a debate so heatedly argued in his father’s Court. No one had ever dared disagree with the Sultan, and none in the entire history of the Desert People had had the temerity to tell the ruling Monarch that he was wrong and lived for more than a few seconds! He stole a glance at Sharley, who sat staring into a goblet of sherbet, the brilliant crimson of his face slowly fading to the colour of sunsets. Mekhmet was appalled to have witnessed such scenes, and yet he felt an enormous admiration for this strangest of barbarians who came from the lands of ice. How proud he was to call him friend! How horrified he was to be associated with him! He took a deep swallow of sherbet and spilled most of it down his embroidered waistcoat. What contradictions and calamities!
Sharley grinned when he saw Mekhmet pouring his drink down his front, and when a servant hurried forward with a cloth, he took it from him and started to mop up the spillage. Suddenly, Sharley started to shake and his face went crimson again as he tried to suppress the terrible giggles that were welling up inside him. The hideous and deeply terrible tension had to find an outlet somewhere, and in the alchemy of fear, youth and stress it translated itself into laughter. Mekhmet stared at him in amazement; not only was he dabbing at his damp waistcoat like a servant, but he seemed to be going mad!
He tried to grab the cloth from Sharley’s hand, and a tug of war developed that made his friend snort and squeak even more. “Stop it! You’ll get us both in trouble,” Mekhmet hissed urgently. But then he caught Sharley’s bloodshot eye and the terrible infection of giggling was passed on. He started to shake and splutter himself, and the pair became desperately engrossed in cleaning up the spilt sherbet as they giggled in mortified fear and pain. “Give it to me. It’s my drink!”
“I didn’t think you wanted it. You threw it away quickly enough!”
They both looked at each other and spluttered with horrified glee. How could they stop themselves? It was hilarious and terrifying, and when they looked round at the outraged and puzzled faces of the courtiers they laughed even more.
“I think we’re causing a scene,” said Sharley between gasps, but Mekhmet could only nod as he continued to shake with nervous laughter.
The Sultan rose to his feet and glared over the audience chamber.
“Enough!” he bellowed, and both Princes stopped abruptly. Sharley somehow managed to swallow a giggle and then burp cavernously. What would happen now, he thought to himself? Would he be dragged away and slammed in the deepest, darkest dungeon for daring to laugh in the Royal Presence?
“Enough! I have reached a decision. The slow, strengthsapping war with the Polypontian Empire has been fought for too long. The time has come to seize the initiative and take the struggle to a region of our choosing.
“This barbarian youth has swept through my Court like a hurricane with neither care nor consideration for our sensibilities and customary politeness. He has rudely spoken his thoughts aloud and presented us with nothing but the barest of truths. And yet I was arrogant enough to consider rejecting the honesty of his words and expelling him from the land. Such is the folly of the Crowned Head!
“Prince Charlemagne has opened my eyes and offers a most important alternative. Namely, an alliance with the House of Lindenshield, and the opportunity to fight in a theatre of war many miles from our beloved land. Now we will no longer have to worry about goading the Empire into a full-scale invasion. Now we can take the initiative; now we can launch an attack on an aggressor who for too long has drained our land of its lifeblood. I now proclaim this audience at an end, but hear all present these words: the army of the Desert People must be prepared and ready to march within a month. And I say to my son, Crown Prince Mekhmet: look to your Guest Friends the Lusu People beyond the mountains in the south. Their regiments will swell our depleted ranks to a formidable size and the Polypontian Empire will tremble to look on our power!”
What had he done? What wasps’ nest had he stirred up? Sharley felt almost dizzy with excitement and, it had to be said, fear. He sat now in the garden of the Court of the Lions, waiting for Mekhmet to join him, and his mind reeled with the contradicting emotions that rampaged through his head. He’d done it! He’d somehow persuaded the Desert People to join the alliance against Bellorum and his murderous sons! Maggie would be so proud of him. But what now? His lessons with both the Dancing Master and Weapons Master continued, but he was very aware of his limitations. He hadn’t yet lifted any weapon in anger, and he knew full well that there was a world of difference between the training ground and the reality of the battlefield. And he hadn’t even got a horse yet, and Mekhmet was already making plans for them both to go on an official visit to the Lusu People who lived far to the south. It was all happening too quickly!
He was on the point of panicking and running aimlessly about the garden of beautifully clipped hedges and trees when Mekhmet appeared. He looked suitably serious as he walked across the lawn to join him, but as he drew nearer he smiled. “I still can’t believe what’s happening. I thought you’d really messed things up when you started to tell my father that he’d been doing it all wrong for over a decade, but then he agreed with you! Unheard of! You really must be charmed, that’s all I can say.”
“Perhaps I am,” Sharley said with a grin. “Something seemed to be talking through me, and saying all the right things, even though they sounded so outrageous.”
“‘Outrageous’ is exactly the right word. I shouldn’t think my father’s been spoken to like that since before he came to the throne. I really don’t know how you got away with it. But you did, and now we’re preparing to march to war! Al-Khatib’s been summoned to the palace and things are already in motion. He’s good at arranging all those things an army needs: transport, food, billets. It’s all in hand. And now we have to go to the Lusu and get them to join us.”
“Yes . . . the Lusu. Odd name. Exactly who are they again?”
“My Guest Friends. I travelled to their lands over a year ago and met with their Queen, Ketshaka. I must have made a good impression because they named one of their impis, or regiments, after me.” Mekhmet had been pacing about excitedly, but now he flung himself down on the grass next to Sharley. “They have the most brilliant cavalry and they ride . . . well, you’ll see what they ride when we get there. Talking of which, you need a horse. We’ve got a long way to go over hard country, so you’ll need the best.” He lay back with his hands behind his head and stared into the brilliantly blue sky. “And I’ve found one for you,” he added with a grin.
Sharley looked at him in astonishment. “Found me a—? But I haven’t enough money to buy a horse!”
Mekhmet frowned. “Who said anything about buying him? He’s a present from me.” He leaped to his feet. “Come and meet him.” He rushed off across the garden, and Sharley hurried to catch up. After a few moments they came to a set of double gates set in a wall that bordered Mekhmet’s private quarters. “Put these on,” he said, casually handing Sharley a pair of beautiful riding boots that just happened to be standing ready next to the gates.
“But . . . but who? What?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” said Mekhmet infuriatingly. “Have you got them on yet? Fine. Now go back and stand next to the tree,” he said, pointing.
A guard stood waiting on the wall. Mekhmet nodded to him. “We’re ready now. Send him in.”
The gates were slowly opened by some invisible mechanism to reveal an empty courtyard. A small dust devil skipped and whirled over the flagstones, but otherwise everything was still. Sharley began to wonder if his friend was playing a joke on him, but then a distant sound of hooves echoed on the hot afternoon air. Slowly, they came closer, neat and rhythmical as a ticking clock, until their sound seemed to fill the courtyard and Sharley’s whole head. Then, walking elegantly through one of the archways set in the back wall of the courtyard, a beautiful horse appeared. He was completely black, but for a star on his forehead, and h
e moved with an odd mixture of fire and grace that made Sharley think of the wind blowing patterns through the long grass of the Icemark.
When he caught sight of the small figure standing by the tree, the horse stopped and snorted, nodding his head and dancing uncertainly on his neat hooves. Sharley instinctively put his hand out and called, “Come on then. Come and say hello.”
The horse seemed reassured by his voice and walked forward, his beautiful head nodding in rhythm with his step, until he stood on the grass a few feet from Sharley’s hand. “Come on. I won’t eat you,” he said, and the horse moved a little closer and whickered quietly. Sharley found himself holding his breath. Could this magnificent animal really be his? He held out his hand again, and after hesitating for a few moments, the horse stepped up to him and allowed his muzzle to be stroked.
In the brilliant desert sunshine his coat gleamed as though polished, and every muscle stood out in a relief of light and shadow along his flanks. Sharley was still amazed by how small the Desert People’s horses were compared to the huge beasts of his mother’s cavalry, but this one had even more of the sense of fire and pent-up power than most of his breed.
Mekhmet joined them. “He’s called Suleiman, after one of our wisest and most benevolent sultans. He’s very young – just reached his full strength and growth. And he’s that rarest of things, a gentle stallion. I thought he matched your temperament perfectly.”
“Suleiman,” Sharley repeated, still hardly daring to believe that such a beautiful animal could be his. “Can I ride him?”
“Of course, he’s yours. Do as you will.”
The horse was already saddled in a beautiful war caparison of black leather trimmed with brilliant red. Sharley scrambled round to the stirrup but then hesitated. Would his leg be strong enough, or would he need to be helped into the saddle? Certainly Suleiman wasn’t anywhere near as tall as Havoc, and he was sure his leg was stronger now than it had ever been, but a sudden fear of needing help to climb on to his very own horse engulfed him, and he stepped back. This would be the first real test of his new status as a warrior. If he failed this simple task, what hope could he have of ever leading an army to the north?
Suleiman turned to look at him and whickered gently, almost as though he understood his new master’s fears and was encouraging him. That was all Sharley needed, and he strode forward, placed his foot in the stirrup, seized the pommel and sailed skywards into the saddle with no problems at all. Immediately, horse and Prince seemed to become one, as Suleiman blew and pawed at the ground impatiently, and Sharley took the reins.
“Where shall I take him?” he asked, looking around at the manicured garden and neatly trimmed lawns.
“That way! Take him through there!” Mekhmet shouted, pointing across the courtyard to where a set of double gates was slowly opening on to the desert. Sharley hadn’t realised that the palace was set directly against the southern perimeter walls of the city, but now he could see out into the wilderness of hot sands and slowly undulating dunes.
The Prince of the North looked at the world lying before him, and leaning forward in the war-saddle he stroked the horse’s proudly arching neck. “The day’s waiting for us, Suleiman. There, through the gateway, beyond the walls and this city of men! It’s calling to us!”
The horse let out a piercing squeal and leaped forward. Black horse and black rider thundered through the courtyard and shot out of the gates. The world was gathered under Suleiman’s flying hooves and pushed contemptuously away as far distance became close, then passed in a dark flash of power.
Mekhmet ran to the gates and watched as horse and rider galloped through the burning sands of the desert. Their blackness against the emphatic brilliance of the landscape was as stark as a brushstroke on a blank canvas.
“The Shadow of the Storm,” Mekhmet whispered, not realising he had named his friend’s legend.
CHAPTER 21
Three horsemen sat on the hilltop, arrogant hands on arrogant hips, surveying the city before them. This was the third settlement of the Five Boroughs to be attacked. The first two had died hard, draining the invasion force of valuable men and resources before they finally fell, but this next operation would be different. Scipio Bellorum expected the city to be taken within a matter of hours. He also expected the casualty figures to be almost negligible – negligible, that was, for the Imperial forces. The garrison and the few citizens left within the city itself would be wiped out.
Sulla and Octavius Bellorum watched their father with a pleasant sense of excited anticipation. Today, a new weapon was to be deployed against the Icemark, another of the General’s innovations designed to minimise costs to the Empire’s exchequer and increase the rate of Imperial expansion. Unfortunately, the new equipment hadn’t been quite ready until now, and the previous conventional tactics had proved costly. But now everything was set to go.
Scipio Bellorum raised his monoculum and scanned the southern horizon. “Ah! Nemesis has arrived,” he said with quiet relish, and handed the instrument to Sulla, who soon spotted the series of dark shapes advancing across the sky. Octavius impatiently snatched the monoculum from his brother and greedily searched the horizon, and grunted in satisfaction.
“Bye-bye, townie!” he said in a grotesquely high-pitched falsetto, and laughed.
For the next few minutes the shapes steadily advanced until they began to translate themselves into solid forms. They were flying at several hundred feet, and the larger ones looked like sea-going ships. But strangest of all were the enormous balloons, made of hide and oiled canvas, that rose above them and were securely attached to the vessels by a series of stout ropes and nets. The Imperial scientists had managed to isolate a gas that was lighter than air and trap it in these massive canopies. And such was its power, entire fighting galleons could be lifted into the air.
This was Scipio Bellorum’s new weapon, and he called it his Sky Navy. Every ship was fitted with sails that extended on long spars from its sides like horizontal masts, and by this means the navy swept across the sky like a flotilla of storm clouds. There was also an escort of hundreds of smaller craft, called wasp-fighters, mustered in squadrons. These were massive man-carrying kites, completely independent of the ground and controlled by a pilot who lay horizontally along the length of his craft in a sling. From here he could make his flying machine climb or dive, and bank to right and left at incredible speeds and with great agility. The fighters were heavily armed with muskets, pistols and a powerful crossbow, all attached to a bracket at the front. The new weapon had been thoroughly tested in a number of war-games, but this invasion of the Icemark would be its first real conflict.
There had then been weeks of delay as the unpredictable climate of the Icemark had plunged the land back into a brief period of winter again, and the ships had been unable to fly as ice formed on every surface, coating ropes and canopy, woodwork and even the metal barrels of the cannon. The higher the ships had climbed, the worse it had become, and eventually some of the galleons had become so encrusted and weighed down by ice that they’d become too heavy for the gas in the canopies to keep them aloft and they’d sunk to earth, completely defeated by the weather. But now the conditions had changed again, and everything was ready for the new weapons to be deployed.
As Bellorum and his sons watched, the navy swept overhead, the dozens of flying ships and hundreds of wasp-fighters oddly silent but for the distant groaning of wood and rope, and the thick rattling rumble of wind in canvas.
Down in the city, warning shouts and the clamour of alarm bells sounded. The enemy were attacking, and they were coming from the sky! Amazing as this was, it wasn’t as shocking as it might have been to other soldiers who had stood against the might of the Empire. The housecarles and fyrd of the Icemark had a history of fighting an airborne enemy in the form of the armies of the Vampire King and Queen. Even so, it was unheard of amongst the warriors of mortal people, and the defenders of the city could only gaze in wonder as Bellorum’s Sky Navy
came on. All along the walls, housecarles, werewolves and soldiers of the fyrd could be seen scrambling to their battle positions. But against this new weapon there was little they could do.
The wasp-fighters suddenly peeled away from the larger galleons in squadron formations, and swooped down on the defenders waiting on the walls. The crackle of musket-fire erupted into the sky. But this stage of the attack didn’t last long; in a matter of minutes, the fighters swept on over the city, where they climbed skywards again on the thermals that rose from the sun-warmed streets and buildings.
Now the huge galleons sailed over the walls, their hulls casting ominous shadows over the settlement. Then, with an awesome slowness, they broke formation and took up positions over almost every district of the city.
Scipio Bellorum followed every move with rapt attention through his monoculum, a cold grin like the rictus of a skull splitting his face. “Now!” he hissed. “Let them have it now!”
Large hatchways in the hull of each ship swung open, and barrels began to cascade in a tumbling avalanche, down on to the city. Within seconds the shattering ‘crump’ of explosions began to echo over the sky, followed a few minutes later by the delicate blooming of flames.
“Yes! Oh yes! Now we shall see how long these rat-hole cities can resist the Imperial will! Raise a shield wall against bombs, my little barbarians; send your werewolves to attack my sky-ships, if you can!”
Now the wasp-fighters swept back into action, dropping barrel after barrel of pitch and oil on to the city, fuelling the flames, then spiralling away on the huge waves of heat that blasted into the sky.
Bellorum was ecstatic; in less than half an hour the mainly wooden buildings within the stone shell of the city walls were fiercely ablaze. Thick black smoke poured skywards, and a strange song arose from the dying settlement as the crackle and roar of the flames mingled with the screams of the people still trapped inside.
