Blade Of Fire (Book 2)

by Stuart Hill

  At last he sat back in his throne weakly and drew breath. “I do beg pardon for my unseemly choking fit. I really should learn to be less appreciative of these fine vintages; they really are very rich.”

  Thirrin eyed him narrowly, but didn’t comment. “We were discussing the possibility of action on the southern border of the Empire, weren’t we? That could mean Venezzia, I suppose, and isn’t there a place called the Desert . . . something-or-other? No, it’s no good, I’ll just have to ask Medea to—”

  “Madam! Thirrin. I . . . we’ve been putting off saying something for quite a while now for fear of giving offence,” the Vampire King interrupted. “You see . . . well, it concerns . . . how can I put this . . . erm . . . it’s about—”

  “What my esteemed Consort is trying to say is that we don’t think Medea can be trusted,” Her Vampiric Majesty said defiantly. “Her spirit isn’t quite human, and I’m afraid that the contaminant comes from your husband’s line. As you know, his father was of an ancient species who view the concepts of right and wrong in a very different way from their distant human cousins.”

  Thirrin rose angrily and drew breath to speak, but then she paused, and slowly sat down again as she thought things through. It had to be admitted that Medea was odd. Even as a baby she’d hardly been normal. She had never cried and had never shown affection to anyone or anything. Not even a doll or a pet animal.

  Things began to make sense to Thirrin – or rather, they were becoming as complicated as they should be where Medea was concerned. “What do you think she might do?” she asked at last.

  “Thirrin, I really don’t think she—”

  “She could betray you – betray all of us,” Her Vampiric Majesty interrupted again. “She has Powers that would be very useful to Bellorum, and she may well choose to offer them to him.”

  “I see,” Thirrin said thoughtfully. As a mother, she had every right to be screamingly angry at these accusations, but as Commander of the Icemark’s defence force, she had an obligation to take them seriously. “I assume you would advise me not to seek her help in any way, or allow her access to any plans.”

  “At the very least,” the Vampire Queen answered. “Some might go as far as to suggest exile – and, considering her potential for chaos and disruption, perhaps even the death penalty wouldn’t be too extreme.”

  A heavy, stifling silence fell on the cave, during which His Vampiric Majesty looked and felt very unhappy.

  “I’ll need time to think,” said Thirrin quietly. And before she could say anything else, the unmistakable wail of the werewolf air attack warning sounded. The King immediately sprang to his feet, more relieved than he’d ever been to prepare for battle.

  “I’m sorry, dear heart,” he said to Thirrin. “We really must fly.”

  * * *

  They’d been at sea for more than a week, and Captain Sigurdson said it was one of the swiftest passages he’d ever made in such a huge fleet. The weather showed every sign of staying perfect: a brisk wind, a relatively smooth sea, and not a cloud in sight.

  Sharley was as happy as it was possible to be, considering he was desperate to get home with his army. But at least he knew everything was going well.

  The routine of travel had established itself and the massive fleet sailed uneventfully towards its destination. The weather remained kind, with clear skies and a brisk following wind that drove them ever northward. But then slowly, by barely noticeable degrees, the temperature began to fall as they grew closer to their destination, and the unsullied blue of the sky became hazy, until entire days were shrouded under a canopy of grey that seemed to unnerve the Desert People and the Lusu. Only Sharley’s assurances that all was quite normal kept them relatively calm.

  A day eventually dawned when low cloud hid part of the sprawling fleet from view, and everything was drenched in a fine mizzling rain. Mekhmet was frozen, and piled on almost every article of clothing he possessed. He may have experienced the sharply cold temperatures of the mountains, but never before had he encountered the bone-chilling damp of the north.

  “Is it like this every day?” he asked Sharley miserably.

  “No, of course not . . . not every day,” his friend answered with a reassuring smile.

  “Good, because I think I’d rust if I was wet all the time.”

  Sharley had to work hard not to grin when he looked at Mekhmet’s woebegone face, but when Queen Ketshaka shuffled into view draped in so many animal skins that she looked like a mobile zoo, he hurried over to the rails where his gleeful chuckling was lost to the wind.

  Lusu Queen and Crown Prince joined him and stared glumly ahead to the horizon. “How much longer before we reach the Icemark?” Ketshaka asked, her bedraggled ostrich plumes sagging under the weight of the weather so that they stuck out almost horizontally from her head.

  “Captain Sigurdson reckons we’ll arrive in less than a week.”

  “How much less?” asked Mekhmet, shivering.

  “He wouldn’t be more specific, I’m afraid. But one day soon we’ll scan the horizon and there’ll be—” He stopped in mid-sentence and stared through the grey mizzle over the grey sea to the grey horizon where he thought he could see . . . something.

  “What? What is it?” asked Mekhmet, peering ahead himself.

  “SAIL HO! SAIL HO!” Sharley suddenly bellowed.

  “WHERE AWAY?” A voice answered from the crow’s nest that swayed precariously on the highest point of the highest mast.

  “FORWARD HORIZON!”

  “SAILS HO!” the voice confirmed, and immediately the decks were swarming with sailors. A bugle sounded, and was faintly answered by the transporter closest to them. Soon the sounds of horns and calling voices relayed the news throughout the fleet, and the long blade-like fighting galleys almost leaped out of the water as they drove forward over the waves and took up a defensive position before the transporters.

  “Friend or enemy, think ye, Your Royal Highnesses?” asked Captain Sigurdson as he joined them on the deck.

  “The Icemark navy was expecting to be blockaded by the fighting fleet of the Corsairs and Zephyrs, according to the last news I heard,” said Sharley anxiously.

  “That’s true enough,” said Sigurdson, snapping open a monoculum and training it on the horizon. “And if that lot ain’t Corsair galleys and Zephyr galleons, I’m a eunuch guard in the Sultan’s harem – begging your pardon, Prince Mekhmet.” With that, he strode off bellowing orders.

  “CLEAR THE DECKS AND BREAK OUT THE CUTLASSES! WE’RE FIGHTING OUR WAY HOME, MY HEARTIES!”

  Cressida was striding with determination along the corridors of the citadel. She’d just come from the defences, where the Imperial army had made yet another attempt to break through the allied lines. They’d been pushed back, but as usual the losses on both sides were enormous. For Bellorum this didn’t pose too much of a problem, as there seemed to be a never-ending line of reinforcements marching up the Great Road from the northern provinces of the Empire, but for the defenders of Frostmarris, the situation was reaching crisis point. They just didn’t have enough soldiers to keep Bellorum out of the city for much longer.

  Cressida burst through a door and out into the courtyard of the fortress. All around her lay wounded soldiers of all species. Some lay still and silent, blood seeping through the rough bandages their comrades had hastily tied, but others screamed in agony and terror as horrendous wounds gaped wide and glistening in the stark light of day. The courtyard was now being used as an overspill area for the infirmary, and everywhere witches could be seen fighting to save lives as they tied tourniquets, closed wounds, cut out musket balls and reset shattered limbs. But like the soldiers on the defences, there were just too few of them. Many of the wounded died before the healers could even reach them.

  Cressida strode on, the horrors of the fighting and its results adding impetus to her determination as she reached the main gates of the citadel and went out into the streets. But a sudden breeze brought with it a we
lcome scent of greenery from the nearby Great Forest, and the Crown Princess slowed her pace and looked out across the roofs to the huge canopy of trees that edged the plain of Frostmarris. The dense woodland stood like a second city, huge towers and impenetrable walls set against the sky, though this metropolis was made of living trees instead of stone, and was peopled by animals, birds and the strange tree soldiers that sometimes appeared in times of great danger.

  The Holly King and the Oak King hadn’t appeared in the battle yet. But Cressida knew they hadn’t helped until the final struggle in the last war either. The Monarchs of the forest were ancient and mysterious, and even her father found it difficult to fathom their minds. “They will fight when it is right for them to do so,” was all he would say.

  Obviously that time hadn’t yet arrived, and perhaps it never would. Everyone in Frostmarris knew that Bellorum had taken to bombing the Great Forest with his Sky Navy. The mad Commander of the Imperial Forces was still thirsty for revenge against the Holly and Oak Kings, who had led their combined armies against the Imperial host in the last battle for Frostmarris.

  Cressida scrutinised the trees now for signs of damage, but she could see nothing. At this time of the year the sap was green and the deep leaf litter on the forest floor was wet with rain, so there’d been no fires. But the bombs had still smashed apart many living trees and felled the mightiest of those that had grown for centuries. The only mercy for the forest was that Bellorum was far more determined to destroy Frostmarris; so far, as closely as Cressida could calculate, only one air raid was being sent against the trees for every ten against the city.

  She dragged her eyes away from the forest and tried to ignore the hope that the Holly and Oak Kings would soon openly join the war. There was little point in relying on those you couldn’t understand. Best to put your trust in your own fighting ability and the resources close at hand.

  With this in mind Cressida set off through the streets again. She was heading for Medea’s high tower set in the walls of the citadel. It was an odd building, not only because it had become her sister’s undisputed home, but also because, despite being part of the citadel, you could only enter it from the street that ran around the curtain walls of the fortress, rather than from the courtyard or any other internal door.

  She reached the entrance and paused. There were many odd things about Medea, but Cressida had just discovered a new one that very morning. It had never occurred to her, or to anyone else, to ask for the strange young woman’s help in the war. Perhaps this was something to do with Medea’s great Abilities – maybe she’d somehow managed to stop any of them wondering why she was doing nothing to help. But if that was the case, why on earth would she do that when her family and country needed her so badly? She may not have been a fighter, but surely her Magical talents could have been used against Bellorum. Of course, that depended on what form her Gift took, but even if she was only a Far-Seer, she could help to warn of attacks, and tell of Bellorum’s plans even more effectively than the werewolf relay.

  Why hadn’t anyone thought of this before? It was only because Cressida had heard her mother muttering to herself about whether she should talk to Medea and ask for her help that anything had occurred to her! Well, now she was determined to put it right. The Queen may have some doubts about asking Medea, but she certainly didn’t!

  Thumping the door once with her mailed fist, she burst through it and stamped up the spiral staircase. Without hesitating Cressida strode into the room that occupied the entire width of the tower at its very apex.

  Medea sat gazing out of one of the four open windows, each of which looked to a different point of the compass. “Wake up, woman, I’ve come to talk to you,” Cressida boomed, sounding amazingly like her grandfather Redrought.

  “I can assure you I’m not asleep,” answered a voice that was not a whisper, but which hissed like one.

  “Good, then listen to what I have to say. Your help is needed. We’re desperate for any help we can get, so what can you do?”

  Medea slowly turned her head to look at her sister. “Oh, I can do an enormous amount, I assure you of that.”

  “So why haven’t you offered your services before? I mean, are you blind, deaf and stupid, or did it just pass you by that we’re fighting a bloody war here?”

  The strangely dead eyes seemed to bore into Cressida’s mind, and for a moment she felt dizzy. But then she shook her head, glared, and said, “Excuse me, but didn’t you hear me? Do you need me to repeat it, or shall I write it down in large letters and short words so you can understand?”

  Medea was shocked. She couldn’t see into her sister’s thoughts! But she dismissed this possibility as absurd, and hissed.

  Cressida took a step back and then gave a short, harsh laugh. “Are you part cat, or has hissing been integrated into the language without me realising it?”

  Medea rose slowly from her chair, seeming to fill the chamber, even though she was much smaller than her warrior sister. The atmosphere slowly darkened as the shutters over the window drew closed, seemingly of themselves, and the shadows thickened like black, dirty cobwebs.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said Cressida, drawing a mace from her weapons belt, striding to each of the windows in turn and smashing the shutters off their hinges. “I haven’t got time for your theatricals. Are you going to answer me, or am I going to have to give you a bloody good hiding? It seems to me that if you’d had a few more well-timed clouts when you were younger, we wouldn’t have had to put up with so many of your tantrums! So what’s it to be, hmm?”

  Medea sat down heavily. She could hardly breathe with the shock of it all. Cressida was immune to Magic! She’d heard of such things, of course, but dismissed it all as so much nonsense; and yet here she was confronted with the truth of it within her own family. She applied her Eye to her sister’s mind and found walls of Adamant where no Magic of any sort could ever do damage. How had she, Medea, missed such an obvious thing? The answer came to her almost at once. Cressida’s Gift had probably lain dormant until she’d reached adolescence, which sometimes happened, and she probably had no idea about it herself. This was the nature of Magic Immunity; it didn’t need to reveal itself. Its strength lay in its secrecy, because if someone with the Gift wanted to do you harm and they knew of your Ability, they’d simply use an axe, or a sword, or anything else that could make a big hole in you.

  “Medea!” a voice snapped. “This is your last chance. Either answer me or get a good slapping!”

  “What? Help? Me? Oh, please,” she said sarcastically. “Do I look the sort who would want to nanny some fool who’s chosen to get themselves injured in some stupid battle?”

  Cressida’s reply was swift. Pulling off her mail glove she slapped Medea across the face. “Think again, sister. We’re fighting a war, and at the moment we’re losing. There’s no room for passengers; either you contribute or—”

  “Or what?” Medea spat, but the look on her sister’s face was answer enough. She didn’t have to read her mind. Medea felt real fear: here was someone she couldn’t harm, but who could definitely harm her. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Oh yes, I would. I’m as ruthless and as strong as Mother, but with none of her compassion. You’re a parasite, and I crush parasites. Please don’t forget, dear sister, I’ve already killed more people than I could possibly remember. One more death would make very little difference to me. I’m afraid you’d just get lost amongst all the other corpses.”

  Medea realised that she wasn’t the only grandchild of Oskan’s father. The blood of that Ancient One ran in the veins of other family members too. “What do you want me to do?” she asked, playing for time.

  “I don’t know! What can you do?”

  “Help the healers?”

  Cressida deflated with disappointment. “Is that all? Is that really all your much-vaunted Magical Powers can do?”

  Medea shrugged. Afraid she may have been, but she certainly wasn’t going to reveal all o
f her Abilities to her sister. In fact, she wasn’t going to reveal any of them.

  But then the Crown Princess looked up, her eyes alight with a determination that made Medea recoil. How many fighters’ last view of the living world had been that fanatical gleam? she wondered.

  “Why should I believe you?” Cressida spat. “How do I know you’re not hiding some Magical Ability that could drive Bellorum and his army from the field in a matter of minutes?”

  “You can’t know,” Medea answered with as much calm as she could muster, and surprised herself by feeling the slow return of her confidence. “But tell me: even if I could defeat the Imperial soldiers so easily, just how do you think you could force me to do so? Hasn’t it occurred to you that if I was that powerful I would have reduced you to a pile of smoking ashes by now?”

  If she was honest with herself, Cressida could have wept. But she didn’t dare be honest. Once she started to weep, she’d probably never stop. She’d hoped for so much when she’d at last remembered that her sister could bring her Gift to their aid. She’d hoped for lightning and firebolts and withering diseases; she’d hoped for a great reading of minds that would reveal the enemy’s plans before he could put them into action. But all she’d got was a mocking offer to assist the healers. “Fine. Well, the healers are wallowing in blood right now. Perhaps you’d better go and help them.”

  She turned away from her strange sister and strode about the room as she thought things through. The possibility of Medea’s Powers had given her a greater surge of hope than she dared admit. Now she felt cold and empty. Perhaps it would be wiser to maintain an attitude of deeply sceptical optimism in the future. But right now she needed to restore her morale before she communicated any sense of despair to her soldiers.

  She drew her sword and sent it whirling about her head in a display of fighting prowess that made Medea draw in her arms and legs. This was the power of Cressida; this was the reason and root of her very existence, and even the briefest display of her military abilities restored her mind, and filled her with a deep calm.