Blade Of Fire (Book 2)

by Stuart Hill

  “Right, sis!” she said at last, sheathing her sword. “You’d better find yourself a leather apron and report for duty; there’s a lot of bones waiting to be sawn!”

  With that she turned and clattered down the stairs, wishing with every step that she was as ruthless as Medea now believed her to be. How long could they resist Bellorum’s hordes before they were finally swept aside? It all seemed so hopeless. Her restored spirits sank again, and she almost sat down on the stone steps of the spiral staircase and gave herself up to despair. But remembering that her squadron of cavalry would be leaderless without her, she lifted her chin and walked on.

  Bellorum’s battle plan was simple but highly effective. During the daylight hours the Imperial land army would assail the defences, with heavy wasp-fighter support putting the entire allied force under enormous pressure. Then at night the Sky Navy would attack, the bomber galleons rolling in at high altitude, while the fighters swept in low, dodging the search lamps and dropping small pots of burning pitch wherever they could to start random fires throughout the streets of Frostmarris.

  As a result, the Vampires were near breaking point. There were just too few of them to try splitting their numbers between day squadrons who could fend off the wasp-fighter support for the land attack, and night squadrons who could defend the city from the bombers and wasp-fighters at night. So they were forced to snatch only brief periods of rest between raids, and the strain was beginning to show. Such prolonged exposure to sunlight was also having an effect on their recovery rate. The inevitable wounds of combat, which would normally have closed within a matter of minutes thanks to their Vampiric constitutions, were now taking days to heal, and some were even becoming infected.

  His Vampiric Majesty sat slumped in his throne. He was so exhausted he didn’t even care who saw him in such an inelegant pose. It would probably only be their old chamberlain Legosi, anyway, and after more than three hundred years of service to the Vampire King and Queen, he could be trusted to keep such lapses of decorum to himself.

  The thin wail of the werewolf air-raid warning wound itself into the cave. The King climbed wearily to his feet and looked at his Consort, who slept peacefully. He almost let her be, but realising she’d never forgive him if he did, he bent and kissed her gently on the cheek. “Oh, sweet breath of decay, I’m afraid they’re here again.”

  Her Vampiric Majesty slowly opened her eyes and stretched, her beauty moving the King to step back and look at her as though he was seeing her for the first time. She was perfect, her skin as pale and translucent as moonlight on snow, her lips as red as fresh blood, her eyes as deep and as dark as death.

  “I was dreaming,” she said in sleepy surprise. “For the first time in two hundred years.”

  “Were you, my little corpse? About what?”

  “After the war. We were at home in the Blood Palace, and we had . . . silly, I know, but we had children.”

  “Children, my love? But you know that is impossible. The dead cannot conceive.”

  “Well, of course I know that. But it was so vivid. We had a boy and a girl, Belasarius and Lucretia. How silly is that?”

  “Ludicrous, my dearest,” said the King sadly.

  “Imagine that . . . a son and a daughter, made from our love.”

  “Imagine,” came the soft reply.

  At that point the chamberlain rushed into the cave and bowed. “The squadrons are assembled and ready, Your Majesties,” he announced.

  “Thank you, Legosi,” said the Queen, and realising that her Consort was still deep in thought, she said, “The skies are controlled by the Empire, my love. Shall we see what we can do about that?”

  “Indeed yes, my little pie of putrescence,” he replied, and strode down from the throne.

  CHAPTER 33

  Down on the defences the land army were fighting ferociously again as the Imperial hordes swarmed before them. Tharaman-Thar and Krisafitsa-Tharina stood with Thirrin; they were tired and their muzzles and forelegs were red with blood. From the skies wasp-fighters harried the line, dropping pots of blazing pitch and regrouping to form fighting lines that swept down on the Icemark lines on their dreaded strafing runs.

  The wasp-fighters often came within range of the defender’s archers, and many had been brought down in a tangle of canvas and canopy. But the pilots had been quick to learn that they must avoid the ranks of bowmen and the ballistas; the competition was too unequal, and they’d already lost hundreds of flyers to their arrows. Instead, the pilots concentrated their efforts on other points along the Icemark’s defences where they could inflict terrible damage, ripping ragged holes in shield walls and killing countless numbers of housecarles and werewolves, Hypolitan and Snow Leopard warriors.

  Thirrin shouted encouragement along the lines as the fighting raged on. The allies had already been pushed back to the second ring of the defences, and this battle was barely an hour old. What chance had they of holding back the Imperial hordes if Bellorum sent in more of his men?

  “Where are the Vampires, Tharaman? My people can’t fight the land and the skies at the same time!”

  The huge Snow Leopard reared up to his mightiest height and with a bellowing roar, he crashed forward like an avalanche of ice, scattering and smashing an Imperial pike phalanx that was threatening to breach their line.

  “They’ll be here, my dear. Never fret.” His refined voice was a stark contrast to the vicious fighting that surrounded them. “And indeed, I do believe I can see them now,” he added, as squadrons of Vampires and Snowy Owls began to rise from the walls of Frostmarris like billows of smoke.

  With a ghastly shrieking, Vampire and owl bore down on the battle, smashing into the wasp-fighters over the plain of Frostmarris. But no matter how many Imperial flyers the Vampires sent whirling to the ground, the numbers didn’t seem to diminish.

  Wave after wave of wasp-fighter squadrons came on unabated. Their Vampiric Majesties realised that at last Bellorum was sending out the full strength of the Sky Navy. Screeching out a warning, the Vampires and Snowy Owls withdrew to reform and prepare for the major battle they’d been expecting for weeks.

  Hundreds of ponderous galleons hove into view, massive and intimidating, their shadows sliding over the land like the outriders of storm clouds that would soon unleash a rain of death and fire.

  The Vampire King silently watched the never-ending flow of enemy force. Then he rose high above his squadrons and, letting out a hideous screech, he folded his leathery wings and dived towards the Sky Navy. With him flew his ferocious Queen and his fighting Vampires and Snowy Owls. They fell upon the massive bomber galleons, tearing open the fabric of their balloons and releasing the gas within. Soon several of the huge ships began to list heavily, scattering a haze of sailors about them as they fell from the decks. One of the galleons began to tumble to the earth; with a gasping roar its canopy burst into a spreading bloom of flame. It hit the ground with a shattering explosion that killed hundreds in the rear ranks of the advancing Imperial land army.

  Several others fell in quick succession, their complement of bombs erupting into the sky in a huge billow of destructive flame that flattened all around it. Even so, the Vampires had hardly made a dent in the vast numbers of the enemy fleet.

  The King howled his frustrated rage as the Sky Navy sailed on towards its target. But then, at the very edge of his sight, he spied a galleon moving slowly into view. It was truly enormous, with double the usual size of balloon to keep it aloft. Its rigging swarmed with sailors and it was festooned with flags and bunting. It seemed to blaze with colour as it advanced. And, most interesting of all, it flew the personal insignia of Scipio Bellorum, a stylised red rose forested with deadly-sharp thorns.

  This was the flagship of the entire fleet, and it was commanded by the General himself. With a screech of challenge and elation, the Vampire King rose into the air, and gathering his squadron, he swept into the attack.

  Scipio Bellorum watched the aerial battles and the land war w
ith a smile. In this chaos of killing and mayhem was an order of which he approved. From this seething contest would be born a new world, one in which the strongest would quite rightfully rule, and the weak, with equal justice, would be exploited.

  He paced the deck of the Sky Navy’s new flagship The Emperor, calmly observing as yet another of the bomber galleons slowly keeled over and fell with terrible grace to the earth. The explosion as the payload of bombs blew up on impact sent a brief vibration through the timbers of the flagship, but then it sailed serenely on.

  There were actually very few crew members working on the decks; some were in the rigging, waiting for the expected Vampire attack, but the rest stood smartly to attention by the cannon that had been loaded and primed for action several hours ago. It was simply a matter of patience. Bellorum knew they would come.

  A high-pitched screech echoed faintly over the sky, and the General smiled. “Prepare to repel boarders,” he ordered quietly.

  Soon the first musket shots sounded, and suddenly the ship was surrounded by the black leathery wings of the Vampires and the pristine white feathers of the Snowy Owls. The cannons fired a devastating broadside of grapeshot, clearing a swathe through the ranks of the Vampire King’s squadron, then the Vampires were on the decks, stepping with loathsome elegance out of flight and into their forms as black-armoured soldiers.

  Bellorum rapped out an order, and immediately Imperial shield-bearers appeared from all hatchways and doors, and charged. The General watched the struggle for a few seconds, and then, spying the unmistakeable form of the Vampire King, he drew his sword and strode into battle.

  Wordlessly, he struck at the King, who smiled as though greeting an old friend, and their contest began. All around them the battle raged, but for the two men it seemed they fought in a perfectly empty arena. With a precise and breathtaking elegance they fought like two deadly ballerinas; the speed of cut and parry, thrust and riposte was a blur of polished light.

  His Vampiric Majesty’s blade struck, and sliced a small nick in Bellorum’s cheek.

  “First blood to you, My Lord,” said the General, bowing.

  The King smiled, revealing his glittering teeth. “Oh, I do trust that so much more will flow my way before this day’s business is over, my dear Scipio. I may use your first name, I trust?”

  “But of course,” came the reply, accompanied by a lightning downward stroke at the King’s head.

  The Vampire easily parried the stroke, and they sailed away like well-rehearsed dancing partners over the decks of the ship, their blades little more than a blur of light between them. Such was the brilliant virtuosity of their swordplay that soon the battle around them slowed, and finally came to a halt as the soldiers of both sides stopped to watch. A circle formed about the fighters, and a cheer rose up as the competition continued. Both men displayed astonishing footwork and an elegance of fighting precision that drew gasps of admiration. But the crowd gave a groan as the Vampire King struck with a straight-armed thrust that found a way through the General’s defence and gashed his left shoulder.

  “Second blood to me, I do believe, my dear fellow. Perhaps you should retire and allow your sons to continue without you.”

  Bellorum smiled, and launched an attack of such ferocity that the Vampire King was driven back across the deck, and soon was bending dangerously backwards over the railings of the hull. He could easily have transformed into his bat shape and flown back to land behind his opponent, but his sense of honour ruled out any move that Bellorum could not use in their personal contest. Summoning every ounce of his strength the Vampire straightened and slowly drove the General back, until he was able to throw him off contemptuously.

  On they fought, sometimes balancing precariously on the railings that lined the deck as they cut and thrust at each other. But then his Vampiric Majesty struck again, this time cutting a deep gash into the General’s leg. Blood began to pour on to the deck, and the Imperial soldiers, aware that the struggle was going against their Commander, started attacking the Vampires again.

  The clash of steel and the screams of the wounded and dying filled the air as Bellorum retreated before the brilliant swordsmanship of the King. Then, with a despairing gasp, he fell to the deck and his sword clattered away out of reach.

  His Vampiric Majesty grinned in vicious triumph. He had done it! He had defeated the hated Bellorum! The war was as good as won! He raised his sword and prepared to deliver the final blow.

  “One moment, if you please,” the General said, politely raising his hand.

  “But of course. A final request, perhaps?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” he replied, and nodded at his soldiers, who had stopped fighting as soon as he’d fallen. They immediately withdrew to the stern of the galleon. “There’s one final bit of business I have to do before you are destroyed.”

  The King grinned at the futile bravado and bowed mockingly. “Please, be my guest.”

  Bellorum nodded his thanks. “Now would be a good time, Captain Horatius,” he called, and suddenly every door, hatchway and stairwell was alive with musketeers as they poured on to the deck and formed triple ranks, one lying, the second kneeling and the third standing. “When you’re ready, Captain,” said Bellorum quietly.

  A young officer saluted and turned to his men. “Present your pieces,” he said, as the Vampire soldiers stood as though mesmerised. “Aim,” he continued, and a deadly silence settled over the galleon. “FIRE!”

  The triple ranks erupted in a crescendo of fire, smoke and the ear-splitting explosion of gunpowder as the muskets were discharged. The agonised screaming of the Vampire soldiers rose into the air as the wooden musket balls tore into their undead flesh. Hundreds fell, their bodies imploding with sickening tearing sounds as thousands of splinters, like tiny stakes of wood, cut their undead existence from the skin and bone of their bodies.

  Only one black-armoured soldier still stood – His Vampiric Majesty. His face was blank and unmoving, and his eyes blazed with the concentrated hatred he felt for the Imperial troops that had destroyed his soldiers. But his undead body was trembling with the excruciating effort of stopping his flesh from tearing itself into thousands of shreds. He turned his head to look out over the skies where he could see the squadrons of his Queen, still tumbling and soaring in their dogfights with the wasp-fighters. To his own astonishment, tears began to course slowly down his cheeks as he realised she would be left to walk alone down the long years. The burden of the lonely centuries would bow her down with the weight of their emptiness, and he found it impossible to comprehend any form of existence or oblivion in which he wouldn’t be with his Consort of so many ages.

  “Oh, my love, I’m so sorry. I’ve failed you. I must leave you in the undead twilight and go without you to what lies beyond. Will you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?”

  And as he spoke his chest swelled, expanding to accommodate his rediscovered compassion. He raised his hand to his lips and blew a kiss over the skies. “With you I found my heart once again. Remember me, my only one, my delight, my light in the Vampiric dark.”

  By this time Bellorum had struggled to his feet and limped across the deck to where the King stood. Casually he reached into his breastplate and withdrew a sharpened stake of wood, and smiling coldly he plunged it deep into the Vampire King’s chest.

  Slowly His Vampiric Majesty sifted away to grey dust, and as the Imperial soldiers watched, a small breeze gathered it up and blew it over the side of the ship, where for a moment it seemed to reform into the shape of a man, one hand outstretched to the distant squadrons of the Queen. But then it was torn apart and scattered over the sky. Only then did a cry of pain and sorrow echo over the ether, so loud and so heartrending that all who stood near covered their ears and bowed their heads.

  Bellorum alone stood impassive, savouring the answering scream that rose into the air, raging, incredulous, and lost.

  Medea seethed with hatred, anger and humiliation. Her sister had
left her less than two hours ago and she’d spent all of that time devising plans to kill her. Direct use of Magic would be useless, but a Magically conjured wind could easily be made to blow loose rocks from the battlements to flatten her. Or so Medea thought, but the more she analysed Cressida’s Gift the more complex it seemed to become. If Magic protected her from direct Magical assault, then could it also protect her from indirect attack? Medea had no way of testing this theory without actually trying to kill her, but she soon reached the conclusion that the only safe way to get rid of her sister was to use some direct method. Perhaps a dagger in the dark, or a rock smashed over her head.

  But Cressida was a trained soldier, and the likelihood of Medea who’d never done anything more energetic than walk up and down the spiral staircase of her tower actually taking her sister by surprise and dispatching her, was about as great as that of a mouse taking on a fully armed housecarle and winning. The Crown Princess’s sense of duty had obviously equipped her perfectly for her dangerous life. And there it was again, that horrible word “duty”! Why did her family have such a fondness for the idea, Medea wondered, when the most sensible and natural attitude to adopt was one of self-service and self-preservation?

  Even the hated Charlemagne had gone into exile reluctantly, and only accepted that he had no choice when it was underlined that it was his duty to serve as Regent to the refugees! For all of her short life Medea had felt nothing but contempt for her family and its ludicrous concept of “Royal Service”, feeling herself to be strong, individual and completely right in her stance of self-interest. Even as the war raged about the walls of Frostmarris itself, she was still convinced she was correct in her beliefs. She may have told Cressida she’d help in the infirmary, but fortunately her sister was too busy with the fighting to know what Medea was doing.

  She sat back in her chair and allowed her Eye to range out over the plain in search of Bellorum and his sons. At least the purity of their selfishness would distract her from the nagging thoughts and questions that nibbled away at her confidence. This war, she was beginning to realise, was a test for all manner of systems and beliefs, from the army and its training methods to the individual and his or her most cherished beliefs. Just who would be the victors? Medea was now no longer certain.