Blade Of Fire (Book 2)

by Stuart Hill

  Medea was seized by a coughing spasm of shock and hatred. Charlemagne! Charlemagne was home! She ran to the windows of her tower, turning her Eye instinctively to the coast and to Michael’s Bay, where Sharley’s armoured foot had stepped from the gangplank of his ship and placed itself firmly on the quayside. She shook with unbridled rage, her white, icy skin beaded with a cold sweat that trickled delicate, lacy designs of hatred all over her body.

  He had come back! Against all of her hopes and plans the hated snotling was back! So engrossed had she been in the struggle for Frostmarris that her Eye had failed her, and it wasn’t until he’d physically set foot on the soil of the Icemark that she’d finally become aware of his presence.

  Here he was, the reason and root of her inability to embrace the cause of the Icemark, her family, humanity, the mortal world . . . everything! She wasn’t responsible for her actions. Sharley was.

  Her Eye raged across the distance between her tower and the quayside of Michael’s Bay, and there before her lay the fleet and the army of allies. She was incredulous, and bitterly, acidly furious. They could break the siege of Frostmarris! Immediately she began to withdraw. She must warn Bellorum!

  But then she stopped: there on the quayside was Sharley himself. Dressed in strange armour and moving with barely a trace of a limp, he mounted a beautiful black horse and joined another boy. Together they rode up into the town, casually acknowledging the salutes of a weird collection of soldiers as they went.

  Medea could have screamed until she threw up! Her hated little brother had achieved what he’d always wanted. He’d become a warrior, and a respected one at that, judging by the soppy expressions of adoration on the faces of the soldiers who saluted him. For fully ten minutes her mind howled and raged through the streets of Michael’s Bay, bringing a storm of hail and freezing wind that ripped shutters off hinges and smashed open doors.

  Suddenly she stopped. Her vehemence controlled by her acute intelligence, she was at last beginning to think. Quietly, she returned to watch Sharley and his exotic-looking friend. They were obviously close. She could exploit that. How crushed would Sharley be if anything was to happen to his special little friend? Oh, what glory would be a death that crushed her little brother with an unending grief. Or, better still, a betrayal from one loved and trusted. Perhaps now was the time to use her ability to possess the body and mind of a victim.

  Medea laughed, her evil mirth translating itself over the distance to an icy blast of wind that struck Mekhmet like a fist.

  Mekhmet’s horse Jaspat reared, pawing the air with his battle-trained hooves. Only the Desert Prince’s brilliance as a horseman saved him from a bad fall. “Where did that come from?” he said as the wind blasted away into the sky.

  “Same place as the squall that did all that damage in the town just now, I should think,” Sharley answered. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. Let’s get the horses stabled and safe inside before any more weather happens.”

  Medea’s spirit form sailed above them, her brilliant mind already weaving its plans. She quickly assessed the allied army’s numbers. Sharley’s army was nowhere near big enough to threaten Bellorum, so it would be much more satisfying to let him reach Frostmarris and ultimately fail.

  “NO! Better even than that,” she screamed aloud, “let him reach the city and see it burning. And then . . .”

  Her voice roared across the sky above Michael’s Bay, but to the soldiers and citizens it sounded like the thunder of an approaching storm.

  The Vampire Queen hung suspended on a thread of flight. The last echoes of her Consort’s despairing cry still hung in the air, and her entire frame shook as the terrible meaning of it entered her mind. He was gone. He had left her to face all eternity alone. The man who had existed with her down the long, long centuries had been released into oblivion, leaving her to go on without his companionship, without his presence, and now – it had to be admitted at last – without his love.

  All around her the Vampire squadrons screeched and wailed in despair, but she remained silent, her mouth stretched around a scream that refused to sound. At last she closed her wings and fell, tumbling slowly to the earth like a black leaf from a giant tree. Her Vampires watched in silence as they ceased their own lamentations in honour of her greater loss.

  Her faithful chamberlain, Legosi, dived after her, racing through the air to catch her and bear her up before she hit the ground. Others joined him, and together they climbed skywards with her unresisting body. Her mind had fled for a moment, leaving the void that was to be the rest of her existence, but now it returned and she opened her eyes to the renewed knowledge of the King’s death.

  “Leave me,” she said in a toneless voice, and her courtiers flew a short distance away to watch her and wait.

  She looked to where her Consort’s existence had ceased, and she bowed her head. “How, how will I go on, my lost love? What point could there possibly be to this undying state without you to give it shape and meaning?”

  She drew a deep breath and the scream came, erupting from her body with all the despair and pain of the centuries she’d known, and all those she’d yet to know. Such was the howl of despair, that the armies on the land below drew apart and gazed into the sky.

  Thirrin shuddered, recognising the cry for what it was. “He’s dead, Tharaman. The Vampire King is dead!” And, bowing her head, she surprised herself by weeping for the reluctant ally who had become her friend despite all that stood against the very idea of such a friendship.

  The giant Snow Leopard drew breath and gave the coughing bark that honoured the valiant fallen, and all along the defences the cry was taken up by his warriors. The human soldiers joined in, beating spear, sword and axe on shield, and the werewolves keened their note of mourning.

  But then something new insinuated itself into the sky – a thin, high-pitched note that climbed higher and higher, growing in strength until it seemed to fill the entire sky and land. It raged and bawled as a great bellowing note of fury roared over the plain of Frostmarris. The Vampire Queen gave vent to all the seething wrath of ages, and now her only desire was revenge.

  She screeched again and again, and with her screeched her Vampires. The Queen now started to fly, slowly at first as she gathered her squadrons, but then with ever-increasing speed as they swooped down the slopes of flight and raged down on the Sky Navy’s flagship where the King had been destroyed.

  Bellorum saw them coming and quickly issued orders to reload the cannons with wooden grapeshot. The musketeers stood ready and the sky-sailors drew their cutlasses and waited. The Vampires rolled over the air like an ominously billowing storm cloud, then swept up and out of sight as they climbed above the trajectory of the cannon and dropped like black hail on to the giant canopy of the galleon.

  The huge ship vibrated as the Vampires leaped on to its rigging. Gunshots were then heard as the crew defending the canopy fired. But soon their bodies sailed by on their journey downwards to the earth. Most were silent, their ruined throats sending out great gushing fountains of red, but some screeched in terror as they fell to their deaths.

  As a great General, Bellorum knew when a tactical retreat was wisest, and after giving the order for the ship to descend he withdrew below decks to the cabins, where he removed all insignia of his rank and anything else that would identify him as a Polypontian officer.

  Above his head he could hear muskets being fired by the ranks in quick succession, and the enraged shrieks of Vampires as they exacted revenge for the death of their King. He worked quickly, casting aside his lace and finery, constantly looking up to the ceiling as though he expected the Vampire Queen to burst through the planking at any minute. The wounds inflicted by the Vampire King were stiffening, but such was the adrenalin as he hurried to make his escape, he hardly felt the pain. Finally he collected a bulky pack from a chest, then crept out of his cabin and made his way through dark corridors and down stairways into the bowels of the huge ship. The route
was completely deserted as the entire crew fought to save their ship from the wrath of the undead Queen.

  Without warning, a Vampire burst out of the shadows before him. With a sweep of his sword he decapitated it, and walked contemptuously over its dissolving body. At last, he reached the huge holds where the barrel-bombs were kept. He found the required lever, and opened the hatchway. He listened to the battle raging on above his head, and knew that his flagship was lost. No matter. Everything would be more than compensated for, once the Icemark was defeated.

  He looked down through the hatchway at the world spread out below him. He could clearly see the land army retreating from the defences of Frostmarris, as once again the contemptible little force of defenders managed to fend off the finest military machine in the known world. Revenge, when it inevitably came, would be superlatively sweet. As he strapped on the bulky pack he’d brought with him from the cabin, he amused himself with the happy thought of executing all of the officers in front of the rank and file once he had defeated them. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he stepped to the edge of the hatchway and leaped out.

  As he fell he knew he would be just one more body falling from the embattled ship. No Vampire would follow; as far as they were aware he was as good as dead, if not actually dead already. When he judged the moment to be right, he pulled the cord that opened the pack, and the wide canopy of finely woven silk opened above him like a beautiful bloom.

  He was jolted from his wild, careering fall, and floated serenely over the plain of Frostmarris. Fortunately the wind was blowing towards his camp on the hills to the south, and with a bit of luck he wouldn’t have far to walk. This was the third jump he’d made with a para-descender, as the Imperial scientists called it. Soon it would be ready to be issued to every galleon in the fleet, but in the meantime he was more than happy to be a “guinea pig”.

  The Vampire Queen screamed in hating elation as the flagship burned. She watched as it suddenly lurched to one side and finally fell in a slow tumble as the flames burned through the rigging and the canopy exploded.

  But now the pain of her loss returned, and with a screech of rage, she led her squadrons to attack the rest of the fleet. Hundreds of wasp-fighters were ripped from the sky, and dozens of the bomber galleons fell in flaming ruin to explode on the plain of Frostmarris, and yet still nothing could soothe the pain of loss, or fill the void left by the death of the King.

  Eventually, Her Vampiric Majesty drew back her squadrons in pure exhaustion and, after gazing out at the empty space where her Consort’s existence had ended, she turned and flew away to the north with her fighters, leaving behind the cause of the Icemark and the alliance, abandoning Frostmarris to the mercy of the Empire and its flotilla of bombers.

  Frostmarris burned. For three nights in a row and most of the daylight hours the bomber galleons had attacked, dropping thousands of tons of gunpowder on to the streets, destroying houses and barracks, gatehouses and citadels.

  The Vampire squadrons had gone, retreating north in their grief to mourn the loss of their King, and though the giant ballistas of the air defences had brought down dozens of the colossal airships, and hundreds of the wasp-fighters, there were always more to replace them. Without Her Vampiric Majesty and her undead warriors and Snowy Owls, the skies were controlled by the Empire.

  The firefighting housecarles and werewolves were led by Archimedo Archimedes in their valiant efforts to save the city from destruction. Rescue teams dug through the rubble of destroyed houses to reach those trapped inside, and poured gallons of water on to burning buildings using the pumps designed by the little engine-eer. But for every life they saved, five were lost, and for every fire they doused, ten more raged out of control.

  The physical form of the city was broken and burned. Slowly, night by night, raid after raid, Frostmarris was dying. But deep beneath the streets, in the network of caverns where no bomb could reach, the spirit of the city lived on. Here the people took shelter and waited with a hope that was fading by the hour. Who could come to their rescue now? All of the allies were with them: the Snow Leopards, the werewolves and the Hypolitan. The Vampires had fled and there was no one left to come to their aid. But despite their fears, the spirit of resistance lived on. They told each other tales of the great heroes of legend, and of unexpected rescue from the most hopeless situations.

  Thirrin and Oskan stood in the huge central cave that had been occupied by the Vampires. As the deep rumble and thunder of the bombing raid on the city echoed faintly through the caverns they looked out over a massive crowd of housecarles, Snow Leopards, werewolves and Hypolitan who waited expectantly. Before the dais where their Vampiric Majesties’ abandoned thrones still stood was a tall imposing woman, dressed all in white and wearing a coronet of golden oak leaves. She was stern of face and silent, and stared straight ahead to the entrance of the cave as though waiting for someone to enter.

  After a few moments the Basilea of the Hypolitan appeared with Olememnon at her side. The crowd of warriors drew apart to form a natural aisle down which the couple processed arm in arm. Both wore circlets of flowers on their heads, and robes of light blue with long trains that were carried in the mouths of Tharaman-Thar and Krisafitsa-Tharina.

  Thirrin smiled, and searched for Oskan’s hand without taking her eyes off the couple as they approached the Priestess. She raised it to her lips and kissed it.

  Oskan’s face remained stony, but he squeezed his wife’s hand in return. He was still amazed that this entire ceremony had been Cressida’s idea. Obviously the Basilea and Olememnon were in agreement, but it had been the Crown Princess who’d first suggested it as a morale booster for the beleaguered defenders. Personally, Oskan thought the effort of organising the ceremony had been worth it just to see Tharaman acting as pageboy. What more precious sight could there possibly be than the huge Thar of the Icesheets delicately holding Olememnon’s train? Oh blessed, blessed relief! Something to laugh about, at last, in all of the horrors of the past few months!

  The Basilea and Olememnon reached the dais where the Priestess waited, and bowed their heads to the representative of the Goddess.

  “All those here present are called upon to witness the joining of these two people. Who will sponsor them in the eyes of the Goddess?”

  “I will,” said Cressida, stepping from amongst the gathered throng.

  “Known to the Mother you undoubtedly are, but state your names and titles for those of mortal limits,” the Priestess said, using the ancient formula of the service.

  “I am Cressida Aethelflaed Elemnestra Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, known as Striking Eagle,” she said to an audience who all knew full well who she was.

  The priestess nodded. “And who will guarantee the conduct of this male?” she said in reference to Olememnon.

  “I will, you old hairy arse,” Grishmak boomed happily, showing his huge teeth in a massive grin. Then, seeing the disapproving looks, he remembered himself and said, “I mean . . . I will, Ma’am: King Grishmak Blood-drinker, King of the Wolf-folk.”

  A quiet sniggering reached his sensitive ears, and he looked out over the crowd and spied his son Howler and Prince Eodred visibly shaking as they tried to control their laughter. Seeing his ferociously frowning face, they collapsed in a welter of spluttering and high-pitched squeaks.

  The Priestess coughed meaningfully and silence descended. “Then let the woman and the man step forward under the eye of the Goddess and be joined in life and love.”

  Basilea Olympia took Olememnon’s hand and led him to stand before the dais.

  “The Goddess has decreed that companionship between people shall be blessed and solemnised by Her gracious presence. Know then that She is here and knows all your hearts, all your loves, all your fears, and all your hopes. Ask Her now in the quiet of your thoughts and, like the Mother She is, She will decide what shall be given for your greater good.”

  The huge cavern became charged with an atmosphere of desperate hope as all pre
sent prayed for deliverance from the wrath of Bellorum. Thirrin, too, asked for this, with a power and determination as befitted a warrior queen. But in the quiet moments between prayers for her country and people, her thoughts turned to Sharley, her youngest and most loved child. “May he be safe, Goddess. May he be happy and live a long life after we have been wiped from the face of your earth,” she prayed quietly. “And may he always know that I loved him . . . my son, whose face I shall never see again, whose laughter I will never hear again. And may he know the love of a special one, as deep and as powerful as that I have known with Oskan, and may they walk down the years together in peace and contentment.”

  “And now let us all bear witness to the union between this woman and this man,” the Priestess called clearly into the cool air of the cave, drawing all of their minds back to the marriage ceremony.

  “Olympia Artemision, Basilea of the Hypolitan, do you take this man, Olememnon, once of the surname Stagapoulos, and give to him your own name? Do you promise to control him and guide him and set to rights all of his male traits?”

  “I do.”

  “Olememnon, soon to be Artemesion, do you accept this name and all restrictions upon your actions and conduct as decreed by Hypolitan law?”

  “I do.”

  Tharaman-Thar spat Olememnon’s long cloak out of his mouth. “Thank goodness for that! Can I have a drink now?”

  Krisafitsa gently dropped the Basilea’s train and turned to her mate. “You have about as much sense of style and occasion as a walrus with wind!”

  Tharaman looked at her haughtily. “I am completely and fully aware that this is a highly important occasion, and one that befits . . . the biggest and best pie-eating competition ever! What do you think, Olly? The first one to be sick is the loser!”