Blade Of Fire (Book 2)

by Stuart Hill

  “Queen, dearest one? Do you not mean Tharina?”

  “Kirimin will be a Queen, my love.”

  Krisafitsa looked at her mate, unable to guess whether he was prophesying at the close of his life or simply joking affectionately about their youngest cub’s nature. She decided to accept the words at face value, and licked his face.

  “A fair few of the beggars, aren’t there?” said Grishmak, strolling up and staring out at the slow advance. “They’ll take some holding.”

  “Nothing could hold them, Grishy,” said Thirrin. “But we’ll take lots with us.”

  The werewolf sighed tiredly. “I suppose you’re right.” Then he let out a great bark of laughter. “HAH! But we’ve had fun trying, haven’t we! Eh, Cressida? Bellorum will remember all of our names and faces whether he likes it or not. Do you think he has pet names for us?”

  The Crown Princess left her position in the line to join them, smiling as she walked up. “I doubt they’d be repeatable in polite company if he does. Can’t say it bothers me, though.”

  Then, standing next to her mother, she quietly took her hand and squeezed it. “Thanks, Mum.”

  Thirrin turned to her. “What for, exactly?”

  Cressida shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know . . . for being who you are, I suppose.”

  “In that case, thank you, too, Cressida,” she said gently, and kissed her. “Now, where’s Eodred?”

  “With Howler and his regiment in the centre.”

  “Of course.” Thirrin smiled. “And I wonder what your father’s doing.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” said Oskan as he struggled up the steep incline of the earthwork.

  “What are you doing here?” Thirrin snapped. “It’ll be mayhem and murder in a few minutes!”

  “I know,” he answered quietly. “But I thought I’d like to be with my wife.”

  She nodded, then turned to look back out over the plain as the ballistas and trebuchets launched their darts and rocks. The Imperial army was now in range, and shields rattled all along the defences as the line tightened. Tharaman reared high into the sky and roared loud and long. His warriors all replied, and their voices crashed out over the advancing soldiers.

  From his position on the hills overlooking the plain, Scipio Bellorum watched the advance through his monoculum. At last it had arrived: the final overthrow of the House of Lindenshield. It had been a long journey of many years and even more battles. Thanks to that mongrel family of barbarians and scraylings he’d been forced to learn the pain of defeat and humiliation, but now all of that would finally be expunged. The stump of his wrist throbbed where Thirrin’s sword had severed his hand so long ago. Well, revenge was the sweetest of dishes. He’d already decided that he would chop off both her hands, whether from a corpse or a living woman, and send them as trophies to the Senate.

  He smiled coldly as he remembered the governing body of the Empire. It had been almost as difficult to manage them as it had been to fight this war. Only the steadfast loyalty of his allies in the Ruling Council had ensured that he’d been allowed to continue the campaign. Things had been especially difficult over the last few weeks with such bad news coming from the south of the Empire. The Sultan was still advancing steadily, and almost all of the southern ports had fallen to the Venezzians and the Hellenes. Still, now the war in the Icemark was almost over, he was already devising tactics for the campaigns against the Desert Kingdom and Doge Machievelli.

  He silently handed his monoculum to Octavius, and watched as he surveyed their advancing troops. Bellorum was grateful to his son for the simple reminder he’d given him at the beginning of the campaign: when fighting an enemy as unpredictable as the people of the Icemark and their allies, always have plenty of reserves to call upon. This he had done ever since, and even as the largest army ever gathered under one banner advanced towards the pathetic remnants of the defender’s force, another two hosts stood ready and waiting to the rear. He wouldn’t be taken by surprise this time. No matter what happened, he’d have a backup army to call into the fighting.

  But he was probably being overcautious. After all, the little Queenling and her allies were all trapped in and around the ruins of Frostmarris. Apart, that was, from the hideous Vampires, but they’d withdrawn from the war, mortified by the loss of their King, no doubt. Bellorum smiled at their weakness. Their cowardice had probably shortened the fighting by anything up to a year. His plan to kill His Vampiric Majesty had been a masterstroke. The skies over Frostmarris, and indeed the entire Icemark, were now his.

  Bellorum turned, beckoned a Staff Officer and gave orders for the Sky Navy to bomb what remained of the city again. A conflagration always made such a nice backdrop to a battle. Fire made everything so much more joyously apocalyptic. The Sky Navy would distract the rest of the field, and he and Sulla would be bathed in red light when they made their dramatic appearance at the head of their cavalry and targeted Lindenshield and her pet leopards. Oh, how surprised they’d be to see him; and oh, how surprised they’d be to die on the point of his lance.

  Medea watched everything from her tower. Her Eye observed Bellorum unblinkingly and, as usual, found much to admire.

  She looked at the earthworks around the city and observed the long unbroken shield wall. The Imperial army would reach the defences in a matter of minutes! She watched Tharaman-Thar rear up like a monolith of marble and roar out the Snow Leopard challenge. The ballistas and trebuchets were sending steel darts and rocks crashing into the Polypontian ranks, and as the advancing army drew ever closer the Hypolitan archers shot flight after flight of arrows down into the press.

  The long spears of the enemy’s pike regiments were lowered into the engage position, and their glittering barrier of razor-sharp steel pushed forward towards the defences.

  Medea was almost enjoying the show, but all at once her senses writhed in agony. Something terrible was close. No, it was a someone. Charlemagne! She gave a snarl of pure fury and elation as her Eye searched the plain and the Great Forest. He was there! He’d arrived at last. Now he was going to die! She prepared herself, and entered the Spirit Plane to meet her brother for the last time.

  Sharley could hear a strange rumbling. At first he thought it was thunder, as there were some huge clouds gathering in the sky ahead, but the sound was far too constant. “What do you think that is, Maggie?” he asked eventually.

  “Bombs, My Lord. The amazing Sky Navy must be attacking Frostmarris.”

  “Ah, of course,” he said, his casual tone hiding the deep fear he felt for the defenders of the city.

  Ketshaka smiled encouragingly. “Well, Charlemagne, if we’re close enough to hear the attack, we should reach the edge of the forest soon.”

  “That’s true!” said Mekhmet excitedly. “Perhaps we should call the Holly King and the Oak King again.”

  “Not yet,” Sharley answered quietly. “We need to be nearer.”

  They marched on in silence. Ketshaka had ordered her Lusus to keep their chants and singing for the battlefield.

  Night came early to the forest as the shadows coalesced under the densely leafed canopy of the trees, and soon they were advancing in total darkness. The werewolves led the army, their night vision ensuring they didn’t lose their way, as no torches could be lit so close to the enemy lines.

  They could all see the sky ahead glowing as the flames of the dying city stained the clouds orange. Every now and then a bright flash lit up the surrounding trees as a bomb exploded, or sometimes as lightning flashed from the thunderheads that were rolling over the plain.

  After a while, Sharley realised he could see the ranks of the army behind. The trees were thinning, and the light of the burning city reached deep into the forest. It was all he could do not to give the order to charge, and rush crashing through the undergrowth. His family could be dead already, or fighting to their last breaths, even as he crept through the trees! But he kept himself reined in; there was still quite a way to go.

  Soon t
hey started to come across huge clearings in the forest that were littered with fallen trunks and smashed timber. Many of the trees were burned and still smoking, and all about was the acrid stench of gunpowder.

  “Why would they bomb the forest?” he asked Maggie.

  “Because the Holly and Oak Kings are your mother’s allies,” said the old scholar. “Perhaps Bellorum thinks it will discourage them from joining this battle.”

  “Do you think it will?”

  “Patently not,” the old scholar answered with a nod to left and right, where rank upon rank of Holly and Oak soldiers had materialised from the shadows. With them were huge phalanxes of fighting animals – stag and boar, bear and wolf – and beyond them, rushing through the undergrowth, were the weird Green Men and Women of the Wild Wood, tusks erupting from their mouths, their naked bodies green and mossy like the bark of ancient trees. And ahead of them all, riding proudly on antlered stags, were the Kings themselves. On their heads were circlets of leaves and in their hands were huge maces of polished wood. They looked as ancient as the forest itself, yet they seemed as strong and as imposing as the mightiest trees.

  Sharley shivered with excitement and reached for Mekhmet’s hand. “They came! They answered the call! We can do it, Mekhmet! We can do it!”

  The Crown Prince gazed at the strange soldiers and back at the army of monsters and people they were all a part of. “Yes,” he said at last. “We can do it. If we get there in time.”

  But just then, Mekhmet suddenly started to shake uncontrollably, as if he were suffering an attack of the fever. His eyes rolled, and his spine arched backwards till his head almost touched the root of Jaspat’s tail.

  “Mekhmet!” Sharley cried in terror. “What’s wrong? Speak to me!”

  “Leave him!” Maggie snapped out. “It looks like some sort of fit.”

  They watched helplessly as Mekhmet shuddered and vibrated, but the spasms seemed to pass and he slowly sat up. Sharley sighed in relief – then gasped in horror as he saw that his friend’s eyes were rolled up into his head. Only the whites showed, glistening and eerie in the fire-red light.

  A hideous gargling sound emerged from Mekhmet’s throat, then he coughed and an awful rictus spread across his face. “Hello, Sharley!” he spat, a look of pure hatred and contempt twisting his features. “So, you’ve come home. You just couldn’t stay away and do as you were told, could you? You just had to come back and interfere, like mummy’s little soldier!”

  Sharley gazed in shock at the transformation in his friend. What could be happening? Was it a fit, or was it—?

  “Don’t you know me, little snot?” Mekhmet’s mouth spat. “It’s me, Medea!”

  “Medea!” he whispered in startled amazement. “But how—?”

  “By Magic, you moron! How else? You really are stupid, aren’t you? Oh well, no matter. You’ll be dead soon, so at least there’ll be one less airhead in the world!”

  “What are you doing? Why have you possessed Mekhmet?”

  “So I can talk to you, of course. I’ve come to tell you that Frostmarris is burning, though even you have probably managed to work that one out for yourself by now. Bellorum’s about to win his war at last, and everyone you ever knew and loved is about to be wiped out. So you’re too late with your army of freaks and fools.”

  “You’re wrong! And they’re not dead yet – I can still hear the bombs. Bellorum wouldn’t bother to bomb a fallen city!”

  “I said ‘about to fall’, not ‘fallen’! You’re obviously deaf as well as stupid. How on earth did I resist murdering you over all those tedious years we shared in the nursery?”

  Sharley stared in blank amazement at his friend’s mouth spitting out the vile words and vitriol. It was impossible to equate Mekhmet’s face with such hatred. He was also having trouble adjusting to his sister’s shocking revulsion and aggression towards him. Medea had always been strange and indifferent to her family, but now Sharley finally realised she actually wanted to kill him! He watched, mesmerised, as Mekhmet’s hand slowly drew his scimitar and raised it above his head.

  “Look out!” Maggie shouted as the razor-sharp sword struck at Sharley with all the power and speed of lightning.

  Suleiman leaped back just in time, his battle-trained reflexes saving his master.

  “Mekhmet, it’s me, Sharley. My witch of a sister has possessed you. Resist her! Throw her out!”

  “He can’t hear you!” Medea sneered with venomous contempt. “Don’t you think I’ve prepared for this moment? I’m an expert at possession now, better even than Father. Your little friend is mine to do with as I wish. And unless you want to kill him, you won’t be able to stop me.”

  Again the scimitar struck! Sharley ducked at the last moment, and it missed him by a hair’s breadth.

  “Mekhmet! Listen to me – it’s Sharley. She’s trying to use you to kill me. But you can fight her! Come towards my voice!” He leaned from his saddle and slipped inside the striking circle of the sword. He had bare seconds of safety, and moving quickly he cupped his friend’s face in his hands. “Please, Mekhmet, come back to me! You made me the warrior I am; you gave my life meaning. Please come back to me!”

  With a convulsive effort Mekhmet threw him off and raised his sword, hideous laughter rattling from his throat. “It seems he chooses not to remember you, snotling. Such a shame when friendship is held so cheaply, don’t you think?” Sidling his horse closer, the Desert Prince advanced menacingly. “You’re just going to have to kill him, Charlemagne, my dear brother – if you can.”

  Sharley bowed his head. “I will raise neither sword nor shield against the one who gave me the gift of companionship when I was lonely; who gave me the right to fight when all others denied it to me; who gave me my pride when I thought myself beneath contempt.” Slowly, he opened his arms and waited.

  Mekhmet lifted his scimitar, and a scream rose up from the ranks of the horrified army. But as his arm reached the zenith of his strike it stopped, and his face contorted. “Sharley! Help me – she’s too strong!”

  “Mekhmet, look at me! She can’t defeat us! We’re invincible if we truly believe it! Look at me!”

  With a shuddering effort his friend’s eyes rolled back to their natural position. “Sharley,” he whispered. “Her hatred is huge. Forgive me!” His eyes turned up in his head again and Jaspat surged forward. “Hah, no chance, snotling! He’s mine, and you’re about to die!”

  Sharley closed his eyes, and slowly – on the edge of hearing, on the edge of thought – he became aware of gentle singing. With the stealth of shadows it stole into his mind and filled him with a strength that flowed through every fibre of his being – a spiritual strength drawn from the boys’ friendship and returned to him with increased power.

  “The Blessed Women!” Sharley whispered.

  With a surge of newfound strength, he leaped forward and grasped his friend around the middle, inside the striking range of the scimitar. He tightened his grip, almost as though he was giving his friend a hug, and his lips brushed his ear. “Mekhmet, could you truly find it in your heart to kill me?” he whispered.

  The Desert Prince shuddered and convulsed, his entire body contorting in a desperate muscular spasm that almost threw him from the saddle.

  “NO!” he screamed at last, and his eyes focused on his friend. “No! Never! Not if the power of all the witchcraft in all the world was used against me! Not if I must lay down my life to stop it! My friend . . . my greatest friend!”

  The gentle singing of the Blessed Women now swelled through the forest so that all could hear it, and despite the horror they faced, everyone felt a sense of peace flow through them.

  But then, slowly, irresistibly, Mekhmet’s eyes rolled back in his head again.

  “Not strong enough, are you? Not even with the filthy power of these contemptible female spirits,” Medea spat sneeringly. “Where did you find them – in some desert hovel? I smell sand and jackals on them. I smell heat and scorpions. Their s
trength is nothing compared to mine! Their puny efforts will not save you!”

  But Sharley heard a faint note of doubt in his sister’s tones, and desperately seized on it.

  “Mekhmet! She’s worried. She can’t hold you! Fight her!”

  With terrible deliberation, the Desert Prince’s head was drawn back and then struck forward, smashing Sharley on the cheekbone. He reeled, but grabbed his friend’s sword hand.

  “I won’t let you suffer the grief of killing me if that’s what must be. I’ll kill myself first!” Drawing his dagger, he held it over his own heart and prepared to thrust.

  The waves of singing voices now rose to a pitch that caused the trunks of the surrounding trees to vibrate as the Blessed Women drew on the power of Sharley’s offered sacrifice. And, slowly, a blue light evolved into the shadows, banishing the darkness with the beauty of summer skies.

  Mekhmet convulsed and his eyes rolled back to normal. “No!” he screamed, and seized the dagger Sharley held over his heart. “Not one second less of your God-given life! Your time isn’t now! We have to grow old and grey. We have to be fat old men in sunlit courtyards remembering our youth!”

  Slowly, he sat straight in his saddle and dropped his scimitar. “In the name of the One, the Friend and Lord of all creation, be gone, hideous witch! Leave me, and may your foul designs know no power!” His body began to shake and with a terrible cry he fell.

  Sharley caught him, and a dreadful shriek rose up around them, filling the surrounding forest with a raging hatred that reverberated from tree to tree. Sharley climbed from the saddle, helped by the werewolf Commander who had rushed forward. Gently, he laid Mekhmet’s limp form on the ground, and grabbing his hands he rubbed them vigorously. “Don’t you dare leave me now! We’ve defeated her! She’s gone! Don’t leave me now!”

  “Who’s leaving anyone?” Mekhmet asked, opening his eyes and grinning. “Sandstorms and scorpions, I thought we’d had it then!”

  Sharley laughed for joy, then as he helped his friend to his feet they embraced. The singing rose to a crescendo, then slowly started to fade, along with the blue light. Sharley turned to gaze into the trees and salaamed deeply. “You said you would help me even at ‘the northernmost limits of the world’, and you have been true to your word. You have our boundless thanks.” And both boys salaamed in unison as the light and singing dwindled to silence.