by Stuart Hill
The Sky Navy continued bombing, the huge galleons driving through the smoke and re-emerging like ships sailing through sea fog, while the wasp-fighters dived and swooped almost through the flames themselves, as they fed the conflagration with oil and pitch.
Scipio Bellorum now raised his hand, and units of infantry and cavalry that had been waiting out of sight marched forward to cover the gates and kill anyone who tried to escape. They were soon busy cutting down the fleeing civilians who hadn’t already been evacuated. Even when the housecarles and werewolf guard had finally abandoned their blazing positions, they had put up only a feeble resistance, half choked as they were on the smoke, and many injured by the fires they’d fought long and hard with inadequate buckets of water.
The sky galleons at last turned ponderously from their target and sailed away as the wasp-fighters swept and tumbled about them. Their first mission was completed – the city was dead. Only its corpse continued to burn, like a body on a funeral pyre.
The General and his sons watched the spectacle of flame and death for another hour. Before they rode away laughing, they left orders with the Field Commanders to let the city burn itself out, then occupy what remained. With such spectacular results, Bellorum expected to be besieging Frostmarris in a matter of days rather than weeks.
Thirrin sat quietly holding Oskan’s hand as she gazed into the fire in their private rooms. Eodred’s continuing self-imposed withdrawal from life nagged and fretted on the edge of their minds, but now there were further worries to think about. The news was bad, very bad, and they both needed a few moments to digest it before they could even begin to react.
After several minutes of complete silence, Oskan drew a deep breath and kissed Thirrin on the cheek. “So, Bellorum’s done it again – presented us with another impossible situation to which there seems to be no answer. Some things never change, do they?”
“Don’t joke about it, Oskan!” she snapped. “This could be the end of us! How can we fight flying ships? How can we defend our cities and people from exploding barrels of gunpowder dropped from the skies?”
“I think you’ll find the term is bombs. ‘How can we defend our cities and people from bombs?’”
“Well, whatever they’re called, it’s impossible! Most of the time the ships flew too high for even the most powerful longbow, and we couldn’t jack the ballistas up far enough to return fire effectively. And not even the best trained army can defend a raging fireball that was once a city. Don’t you see what I’m saying, Oskan? We’re beaten. We have no answer to this new weapon. We’ll have to abandon the cities and fight from the forests, marshes and other wild places, like rebels in our own land!”
“Perhaps you’re right, but don’t send out orders to evacuate the cities just yet. There’s still a chance we can get through even this.”
“How? It’s impossible. What defence could there possibly be?”
“The Vampires,” Oskan answered simply. “Flying ships won’t be out of their range.”
Thirrin gazed at him in excitement as the truth of his words sank in. “Of course!” she said in sudden and happy relief. But it was quickly cut short as she added, “But will they heed a summons to help? Don’t forget, they’re still trying to resist fulfilling their treaty obligations.”
“Oh yes, they’ll heed the summons,” Oskan replied. “Either they come to help or I’ll burn them alive – or rather, dead!”
Thirrin looked at her normally gentle husband, and shuddered. Even the suggestion that the Vampires might ignore their treaty obligations had caused his features to sharpen, so that she seemed to be looking on the face of some ferocious hunting hawk. She wasn’t often reminded that Oskan was only half human, and that his father was from the oldest and most powerful People in the worlds of shadow and light. But when his heritage showed itself, she felt herself a stranger in the company of the very man she loved – something she felt a hundredfold in the presence of her youngest daughter, Medea.
“We’d better send a message straight away; even the werewolf relay will take several hours,” Thirrin went on, thinking it better to ignore the matter-of-fact way her husband discussed burning their reluctant allies. Even the Vampires deserved more compassion than that . . . perhaps.
“We’d better get a favourable reply quickly, otherwise I might just decide to pay a less than pleasant visit to Their Vampiric Majesties.”
“I’m sure we will,” Thirrin said placatingly, not quite able to believe she was trying to shield the Vampires from the anger and vengeance of Oskan, of all people.
“I’ll summon Sergeant Moon-howler,” she said finally. “The sooner we send a message, the sooner we’ll know what we’re doing.”
* * *
Cressida strode along the corridor to her brother’s room, thumped on the door once, and burst in. As she’d expected, Eodred was lying curled up on his bed with his back to the door.
“It stinks in here,” she said, and striding to the window she pushed the shutters open wide. Immediately, a blast of snow and ice exploded into the room, as the Icemark weather indulged in one of its little quirks and inflicted a late blizzard on the land. Although the spring flowers were now well in bloom and the Great Forest was decked in the brilliance of new green, the snows of the Icemark were no respecters of what people expected from the season.
Eodred looked up and blinked as the stale fug and debris of his room was blasted aside by the freezing wind.
“You’ve done more than enough lying around. It’s time to get up and start living again,” said Cressida, dragging the covers off the bed and throwing them on the floor. “You’re coming down to the lists with me. Your weapons skills must be as rusty as an unpolished sword by now, and we’re going to need everyone we can get in the next few months.”
Eodred allowed himself to be hauled to his feet by his diminutive sister, then stood blinking down at her like a confused owl. “I . . . I’m not ready . . . I don’t want—”
“Tough!” Cressida barked. “The time for kindness and kid gloves is over. Cerdic’s dead, so get used to it. He’s gone to Valhalla where he’s probably giggling with Granddad right now. But remember this, Eodred, you have to earn your place in Odin’s Mead Hall, so if you want to see your twin again you’d better start living the life of a warrior. They don’t let milksops into Valhalla; you can’t get in if you’ve starved yourself to death or pined away like some spineless Wally who’s been thwarted in love. The Lindenshield clan are fighters and doers; we’re righters of wrongs and defenders of lives. And if you can’t live up to that tradition then you’re no brother of mine!”
Cressida crossed to where Eodred’s armour lay in a heap where he’d dropped it after the battle in which Cerdic had been killed. She grabbed the coat of mail and threw it at him. “Put that on,” she shouted. “And this!” A rust-flecked helmet landed at his feet. “We’ll worry about cleaning it after a few hours in the lists. Now move! I’m not letting you out of my sight, so you might as well get dressed now.”
Eodred slowly slipped the mail shirt over his head and strapped on his sword belt. So far, he’d followed his bossy sister’s orders almost automatically, but now his mind began to wake up, and with it came a spark of resistance.
“Why should I bother?” he moaned. “I don’t care about fighting any more . . . I don’t care about anything.”
“Yes, well, that’s been made pretty obvious over the last few weeks. But now you’re going to care again,” Cressida replied briskly.
Eodred unbuckled his sword belt and let it drop. “No, I’m not. Nothing’s worth the effort any more.”
Without warning his sister flew across the room, pinned him to the wall and slapped him hard round the face. “Cut the crap, Eodred!” she spat furiously. “You’re a soldier in the army of the Icemark, and a Prince of the House of Lindenshield, and you will set an example to the rank and file who’ve also lost family and friends in this war! Either that or you will become an example, and I’ll personal
ly see to it that you’re hanged for neglect of duty.”
“You wouldn’t . . . you couldn’t! Mother wouldn’t—”
“. . . even know until it was too late!” Cressida interrupted. “She’s too busy to keep an eye on everything, and as Crown Princess my powers are second only to hers. My personal squadron of cavalry would follow my orders to the letter, and by the time Mother found out you’d be swinging in the breeze!”
He gazed at his sister in horrified wonder. He’d always known she was determined and powerful, but this sort of ruthlessness was terrifying. Suddenly, the stress and grief of the war, the death of his twin, Cerdic, and the awful trauma of his first battle overwhelmed him and he broke down in a welter of sobs. Cressida watched him for a few seconds, then the hard mask of her fury melted and she gathered him into a hug.
“Come on, Eddie. Cerdic’s dead and there’s no point in living a half-life yourself. Mum needs you, we all need you. Now pick up your sword and let’s go down to the lists and see what we can do about getting ready to avenge him. Just think how much better you’ll feel once you’ve chopped off a few Polypontian heads!”
Slowly, Eodred’s sobbing reduced to a few sniffs and hiccups. The world had gone mad. Nobody had warned him that war could be anything other than glorious. They’d never told of the blood and the stench of dying soldiers as they lost control of their bodily functions. They’d never mentioned the foul, groaning, hideously painful deaths that most warriors died, stabbed with sword, dagger or pike, shot with arrow or musket ball or burnt to a crisp and blown apart by cannonfire. But perhaps that was because they couldn’t bear to remember the truth of battle themselves. Perhaps veterans of real war knew better than to admit to the truth. After all, if everyone knew what it was really like, perhaps nobody would dare allow it to happen, and then what would they do? Some people had nothing to offer the world other than their fighting skills.
Besides, he was a soldier; that was what he’d been trained to do almost as soon as he could walk. There was no other role for him – what could he possibly do in a peaceful world? No, he decided, it was all too impossible. People had always fought and died in wars and probably always would. He couldn’t change that situation; no one could. It was what he was meant to do.
Suddenly Eodred realised he’d made a decision. He would do as Cressida wanted. He’d take up his sword again and fight in the war. He knew he had no real choice. Eventually, he wiped his eyes and nodded. “All right. I’ll start training again. I need to blow away a few cobwebs. Perhaps then I’ll feel better.”
“I’m sure you will. Captain Bone-splitter’s in the training grounds, and so are my cavalry units and Commander Kalaman. Just wait till you get the feel of a sword and shield again; you’ll feel much better!” Cressida said eagerly, a look of immense relief spreading over her face.
“Yes,” Eodred answered, and smiled sadly.
His sister quickly seized his hand before he could change his mind, and hurried him out into the corridor where she virtually dragged him along to the training lists.
Medea was almost happy. The window of her room high in its tower was wide open to the storming sky, but she seemed completely oblivious to the cold. Physical discomfort rarely affected her, unless she was directly and severely injured, but even then her Gift could reduce the pain and shock. Her wounded arm had mended nicely thanks to the accelerated healing processes helped by Magic, and she was beginning to feel invincible.
She’d spent a memorable few hours watching the destruction of the city in the Five Boroughs. Science could be so clever. Who’d have thought that people could build flying ships? And, yet, true to form, they’d immediately used them for war and for the destruction of their fellow human beings. There were times when Medea found people quite refreshing. Of course nature, and particularly supernature, was far more powerful than science could ever be. Perhaps one day boring little people like Maggiore and Archimedo would understand that there was an entire limitless cosmos of plains beyond the constraints of the one material world they happened to occupy. Only then would science become a force that could challenge the greatest witch or warlock. But that, of course, would mean the mundane scientists would have become witches and warlocks themselves.
With a sigh she refocused her Eye to watch the dying city collapse to rubble in the raging flames. For unmagical mortals, Bellorum and his sons were really the most interesting creatures. They almost made a dull existence worthwhile.
CHAPTER 22
Their Vampiric Majesties sat in the cold and quiet Throne Room discussing the Icemark, and the answer they should give to their less than beloved ally’s inconvenient demands for military assistance. A werewolf messenger, who had arrived earlier that day and was now growing rather impatient, was awaiting a reply somewhere in the palace grounds.
“It would seem, dear heart, that despite all of our hopes our allies believe the time has come to fight again,” said the King, putting a voice to the abominable situation they found themselves in.
Her Vampiric Majesty sighed in tired irritation. “Yes; how unspeakably demeaning! That I, an individual of impeccably aristocratic credentials even before my elevation to the ranks of the Undying, should be expected to fight with and for mere barbarians, yet again! It really is too much, my ever-lasting love!”
“Yes, my dearest pumpkin,” the King went on sarcastically. “Ripping the throats out of healthy warriors and gorging yourself on their thick, rich blood must be such an offence to your aristocratic sensibilities. I seem to remember you screaming in disgust in the last battle against the Empire . . . so clever the way you disguised your voice to sound excited and delighted, so as not to offend our less than noble allies.”
The Queen shot him a glance of near loathing, but then her features softened. “Don’t let’s quarrel, Kingy, darling. We work so much better together; my aristocratic instincts combined with your low cunning are an unbeatable combination, and none can compare with your intelligence and wisdom. Surely together we can word a reply to that renegade warlock that will release us from this burdensome treaty.”
They spent another hour in deep conversation, then summoned the werewolf to send their reply to the Icemark by Wolf-folk relay. The huge creature stumped into the Royal presence, its massive and uncouth physical power contrasting sharply with the elegance of its surroundings. Their Vampiric Majesties gazed imperiously down from the height of their enormous gothic thrones and let the silence stretch out into long uncomfortable minutes. To the immortal, time had little power to either change or discommode.
“Well, wolf . . . person,” the Queen said at last. “Are you ready to receive our reply to Queen Thirrin and her Consort the renega— the Warlock Oskan Witchfather?”
The huge creature inclined its head and waited silently.
“Then say this: ‘Their Vampiric Majesties have neither the time, nor the inclination, nor indeed the obligation to lead any sort of army against enemies that are not their own. Therefore they most regretfully refuse, utterly and completely, to answer the summons. And, as Sovereigns of an independent land, they also refuse to recognise the right of anyone or anything to issue such summonses. This reply is open to neither negotiation nor amendment.” The Queen drew a deep and ecstatic breath, as though relieved and happy to have rid herself of a troublesome burden.
The werewolf raised a hugely expressive eyebrow, but said nothing. Then, bowing, he withdrew. A few moments later the melancholy notes of his howling sounded on the night.
“Come, my love,” His Vampiric Majesty said quietly. “Let us take the air while we await the reply that will undoubtedly come sooner than we would like.”
The Vampires looked at each other, understanding the position they were in perfectly. They really had no choice but to fulfil their treaty obligations; their reply had been nothing but a delaying tactic and an act of defiance in the face of a power they couldn’t resist. Oskan Witchfather was implacable and remorseless. An enraged warlock of his phenomenal abili
ties would be unstoppable, and the rulers of The-Land-ofthe-Ghosts were skilled enough as politicians and diplomats to know their limits.
Besides, it all mattered so very little. As a mortal, Oskan’s control was limited by time itself. In fifty or sixty years at the very most, he would be dead and gone, and their Vampiric Majesties would once again be free to inflict havoc and terror on all the lands around. Patience was the greatest ally of the undead.
The Vampire King and Queen processed from the Throne Room and were joined by a simpering party of toothy courtiers as they made their way to the Royal gardens. Under a bright moon the displays of black and dead-white roses glowed in a glory of shadow and subtle light. Here and there fountains cascaded skywards, glittering like shards of crystal as they absorbed the radiance of the moon. All was elegance and beauty, and not one of the Undead was troubled by the freezing winds that blasted from the nearby mountains. Light laughter tinkled on the frozen air and courtiers sipped suspiciously red wine from cut crystal goblets.
The King was just in the middle of an amusing anecdote, when the distant wail of a werewolf insinuated itself into the night air. All fell silent and waited, until an acknowledgement was given from a nearby wood. They then turned and watched as a wolfman approached along the labyrinthine paths that wound around the symmetrical flower beds.
When he was a short distance from the party he stopped and bowed. The Queen slowly inclined her head, giving him permission to approach. “I assume you have brought a reply from our beloved allies,” she said with deep irony.
“Indeed I have, Your Majesty,” he said. And as they watched the creature began to shake, and his eyes turned in their sockets until only the whites could be seen. “To my fellow rulers and trusted allies I send this message that I know will be received in the spirit with which it was sent,” the wolfman said, but the voice he used was not his own; it was light, human and immediately recognisable as that of Oskan Witchfather. The Vampires hissed in alarm. The warlock’s Powers must have developed. He’d never displayed them in this way before; usually messages were simply reported, but here the werewolf was being used almost as though he were possessed by Oskan’s spirit.
