Blade Of Fire (Book 2)

by Stuart Hill

  The army gave a collective sigh of relief and a troubled murmuring ran through the ranks. Maggie urged his horse forward. “Perhaps something should be announced,” he said, pointedly nodding at the ranks. “Damage limitation, morale and all that,” he added in a whisper.

  Sharley understood immediately, and remounting Suleiman he faced the warriors of his host. “Soldiers of the alliance, we have defeated the second most powerful witch in the entire land of the Icemark, and the most powerful of all is our staunch ally, my father! What greater omen of good fortune could we have? All of you have just witnessed the good spirits of the Desert Kingdom who crossed even the grey seas of the north to help us in our time of need. What allies we have! Not even the Dark Arts can beat us, so what chance has a mere army of mortals against our swords, against our determination, against our power?”

  A charged silence greeted this, but then a lone cheering voice rose up as Ketshaka stood in her stirrups and brandished her spear. “None can stand against us! The Shadow of the Storm has defeated even Magic in his war against his enemies. Truly we are makers of history! Truly we are destroyers of empires!”

  This time the entire army joined in with the cheering, and they prepared to march on. But now Sharley was almost overwhelmed with fear as he remembered what Medea had said about Frostmarris and his family. The city was burning, and everyone he ever knew and loved was about to be wiped out! Were they still alive? Were they already dead, trampled and bloodied beneath the feet of the Imperial army, or had they been taken captive to be humiliated and tortured by Bellorum and his mad sons? He must strike immediately and drive the Empire from the land! Standing in his stirrups he drew his scimitar.

  “Ride now for Frostmarris! Ride now for the blood of the foe! The enemy awaits us! They are ready to bleed! They are ready to die!”

  And as one the army of people and monsters, legends and nightmares surged forward, a wordless roar of hatred rising before them like a bow wave.

  Medea smashed back into her body with crushing force, and lay, shuddering and vibrating, before being violently sick. She lay in the corner of her tower room heaving and vomiting as the physical shock to her system convulsed her stomach in great waves of nausea.

  “Sharley!” she snarled. “I’ll peel the skin from your body, strip by strip, and watch the bluebottles and maggots feed on your flesh!” She vomited again, bringing up bile in bitter gouts that tore at her guts. “It took an alliance to beat me: you, your fancy little friend, and spirits from a foul land! But I’ll win in the end. I’ll blast you and roast you, even as you ride at the head of your army of freaks!

  CHAPTER 37

  Olememnon watched as the pike phalanx punched through the fyrd regiment to the left of the Hypolitan position. “And so it ends,” he said quietly, his voice lost in the terrible raging din of the battle as he pointed out the breach to his wife Olympia, the Basilea. She quickly gave the order to form a circular shield wall, and the men and women of their command moved with smooth precision to face outwards, their shields locked and spears bristling like an impenetrable hedge.

  “Ollie,” she said simply, and kissed him. “There won’t be time later. Pity we had such a short time of it.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “But what we had was good.”

  “Wasn’t it?” she said, and laughed, the glorious sound flowing out on to the air to mix incongruously with the sounds of fighting and death. A regiment of Polypontian shield-bearers advanced against them, breaking against the defiant wall of the Hypolitan and falling back, only to reform and charge again.

  Further down the line Eodred and Howler watched as the enemy flowed through the breach to surround their position. “I’d sooner be with the Hypolitan,” said Howler, nodding towards the Hypolitan’s more easily defended position on a higher point of the earthworks.

  “I’d sooner be in the mess hall with a pint of beer myself,” said Eodred.

  “Well, as that’s a little difficult at the moment, perhaps we’d better move.”

  “Fine,” Eodred agreed, and drawing breath, he bellowed out the order to charge. The mixed regiment of housecarles and werewolves formed a wedge of locked shields and smashed into the press of Imperial troops that stood between themselves and the Hypolitan. Axes, swords, tooth and claw carved a path through the enemy army, and as they approached the Hypolitan shield wall it opened to receive them.

  Soon, two islands of resistance stood in a sea of Polypontian soldiers. In one stood the Basilea and her warriors with Eodred and Howler’s regiment. On the other were Thirrin, Grishmak and the Snow Leopards. The banner of the white fighting bear flowed bravely in the wind, and alongside it flew Cressida’s standard of the striking eagle.

  Tharaman-Thar and Krisafitsa-Tharina reared high in the shield wall, striking down the enemy as they stormed around their beleaguered position. Grishmak, too, howled and raved, his teeth red with blood and his arms drenched to the elbows. But still the enemy came on, singing their war hymns and dying under the swords of Thirrin and Cressida as they fought with a frenzy against the unstoppable sea of the Imperial troops.

  But then the impossible happened. The enemy began to draw back. The defenders began to cheer, but then fell silent as they saw what was coming in to replace the land soldiers. High in the sky, line after line of wasp-fighters were sweeping in. There seemed to be no end to their numbers. The canopies of the flying machines, stained red by the fires of the burning city, loomed in livid relief against the black storm clouds and darkening night sky.

  Thirrin sagged, and leaned heavily against her sword. “My friends, we must stand against an enemy we cannot fight.” She turned to Oskan who stood, seemingly deep in thought, at the foot of the banner. “It is time to say our goodbyes.”

  He looked up, and watched as the wasp-fighters bore down on them, making their strafing run, pistols and muskets cocked, and small barrels of gunpowder primed.

  “Say our goodbyes?” he said. “No, not quite yet.”

  From the eaves of the Great Forest, Sharley saw Frostmarris in flames, and tears ran down his cheeks. His home was burning. Where were his family? Where were his people? Angrily, he dashed the moisture from his eyes and glared over the plain. There! There they were. Two islands of resistance surrounded by Imperial troops, with even more marching into the attack!

  Slowly he drew his scimitar, the arc of his arm seeming to pull a controlled hatred and rage deep, deep into his slight frame. He urged Suleiman forward beyond the eaves of the trees and, as his friends and allies watched, he stood in his stirrups and held the slender curve of the blade high above his head.

  A great growl and roar of thunder seemed to announce his arrival on the field of battle, and throwing back his head he gave the war cry of the Lindenshields.

  “The enemy is among us! They burn our houses and kill our children! BLOOD! BLAST! AND FIRE! BLOOD! BLAST! AND FIRE!”

  And the vast army flowed from the forest like an unstoppable flood.

  Thirrin turned back to watch the flying machines. She could clearly hear the wind whistling and rattling through their canopies, and raising her sword she roared out defiance against them as they streamed down the slopes of flight towards her.

  Then a screaming ripping screech rent the air, and the lead wasp-fighters were punched from the sky. A rising shriek of triumph and challenge echoed over the plain as the sky filled with giant Vampire bats and Snowy Owls.

  Wasp-fighters fell like leaves in a storm, their gunpowder exploding as they buried themselves into the ground. A great roar of elation rose up from the ranks of the Icemark defenders.

  “THE VAMPIRES! THE VAMPIRES! THE VAMPIRES ARE HERE!”

  Thirrin watched as the Vampire Queen led her squadrons in triumph against the Sky Navy, the ferocious screeches of the undead warriors piercing the eardrums of all on the battlefield. They tore into the squadrons of wasp-fighters, and soon a tangle of dogfights wove and tumbled through the night air, illuminated by the flames of Frostmarris.

&
nbsp; But while Thirrin had been distracted by the aerial fighting, the Imperial land soldiers had begun advancing again, their pikes and spears, swords and muskets glittering as they marched forward. Bellorum was not finished yet. Thirrin could see the General coldly giving his orders as one of the massive reserve armies began to roll on to the field of battle. These were the elite soldiers of the Black Army. None of these veteran soldiers had fewer than twenty years’ battle experience, and they were fiercely, blindly loyal to the General and to the Empire, in that order. Theirs was the task of finally wiping out the hated House of Lindenshield, and they sang as they advanced, proud and honourable, fierce and ruthless.

  Thirrin’s brief elation at the return of the Vampires was already forgotten. They could fight no more. These were fresh reserves, strong and vital, and eager to kill. She turned to Oskan in despair, and gasped. His eyes were white, and his frame shook as he drew power from the sky.

  “NO! Oskan, NO!” she screamed as she realised what was happening. He was calling down the lightning, and the last time he had done that it had nearly killed him.

  Medea saw. She felt the energy of the ionised air gathering and roiling in the sky above the distant figure of her father. She knew the lightning would fall, crackling and roaring through the air, and smash into his body. She knew it would sear and burn and boil as it travelled through his frame, before bursting out of him as he directed it against the enemy.

  In a split second she saw that this could be her moment of triumph. She stood, and screamed. Sharley and his band of freaks were drawing near. Now was the time to strike. Raising her arms above her head she opened her eyes wide, and their pupil-less blackness burned and raged. Calling forth her full strength as a Weather Witch, she reached out her mind and snatched the lightning away from her father.

  Exhausted, Oskan fell to the ground unconscious.

  Crackling and roaring, the first bolt of Power was drawn through the sky and struck her with a mighty force. She smiled as she felt its raging strength fill her. But unlike her father, she could take yet more power from the skies. Her Gift as a Weather Witch was without equal. The storm she’d sent against Sharley and the refugee fleet was puny compared to the power she called forth now, her strength increased manifold by her hatred of the favoured brother, the cherished weakling. She called forth more and more of the limitless storm force from the sky. Bolts of lightning fell, hissing through the air as they came, driving her to her knees as they entered her body with smashing force. With supreme will she stood up, containing the searing heat of the storm’s power and neutralising its ability to destroy her by drawing a blood-freezing cold from the upper atmosphere.

  Oskan clawed his way back to consciousness. There was something to say! There was something to say! He cried aloud in horror and despair. He understood at last. Medea was the Dark Witch! Medea was responsible for the deaths of so many soldiers who’d fallen in the first major battle of this war. Medea was responsible for the death of her own brother Cerdic! And now she was going to kill Sharley!

  “Thirrin!” he shouted, climbing out from between Krisafitsa’s protective front paws. “Thirrin! He’s here!”

  She heard his voice, and cried out from the shield wall where she’d been fighting.

  “Oskan, you’re awake!”

  “He’s here, Thirrin!”

  She shook her head as though to clear it. This was too much like the last battle for Frostmarris all those years ago.

  “Who’s here?”

  A great growl and grumble of thunder drowned out his reply, but he pointed towards the Great Forest. The humid atmosphere seemed to magnify the trees and everything close to them, and suddenly she saw a black-armoured figure ride out on a neat black horse. The figure stood in its stirrups and drew an oddly curved sword. She held her breath. Who could it be? Then as she watched, the fires from the burning city lit the blade of his sword, and words from the past leaped into her mind.

  “He shall return, a blade of fire in his hand . . .”

  Her eyes filled with tears. It can’t be!

  The figure seemed to expand as it drew breath, and then, incredibly, it gave the war cry of the Icemark.

  “It is! Oskan, Tharaman, Cressida! It is!” she shouted incredulously.

  Medea roared, and released the power of the lightning. Like a white-hot meteor, like a quicksilver spear it raged across the sky, crackling and blazing towards Sharley and his allies.

  Oskan saw it coming. With the unthinking reflex of rage, he struck out. A great burst of energy erupted into the sky, deflecting the lightning from Sharley and directing it straight back at Medea.

  She screamed in terror as the power ricocheted and struck back at her. It hit her squarely in the chest and hurled her against the wall of her tower room. Electricity hissed and snarled, crackled and snapped all around her. The room was filled with a brilliant, searing light, the glaring white of boiling steel. The heat was like the heart of the sun, and everything around her burst into flames.

  But still she didn’t die.

  Now she drew towards her the deadly cold of the Arctic’s bitterest winters. The power of blizzards and the icy, death-dealing winds of the north’s winter storms enveloped her. Cold met heat, and the atmosphere exploded and shattered as two equal but opposing powers fought for supremacy, and burned themselves out in a roaring crackling conflagration.

  Medea was hurt, but not mortally so. She’d had a split second to call for protection, and some of the lightning’s power had been neutralised. She retreated towards the stairwell, walking through the flames that raged and roiled through her room. She’d escape to the Great Forest and gather her thoughts before deciding what to do.

  But too late! He was there, filling the room with his anger. Medea gasped, and watched as her father walked slowly towards her. His face was immobile, but his dark eyes blazed with incandescent fury.

  In desperation Medea struck out, sending energy to hit him squarely in the face. He barely flinched. She sent blizzard and maelstrom against him, but now nothing had any effect. She knew she couldn’t stop him. His power had grown from his anger, and hers had been burned from her very core. She was terribly damaged.

  Oskan’s mind locked deep into his daughter’s. “Medea, my beloved daughter. Why have you betrayed your people? Why have you betrayed your family? Why, my sweetness, did you kill your brother?”

  She shuddered as his bitter pain and terrible anger filled her head. Never had she been so utterly terrified. She could see her father’s mind with horrifying clarity, and suddenly understood how hard it was for him to hide his other, evil self, so powerful and cruel. Like her, Oskan Witchfather belonged to another species that was as old as time, unfeeling, and dreadful.

  She sank slowly to her knees and marvelled that he had resisted so much of his nature for so many years. She now knew that if he opened himself to the Dark he could be a greater sorcerer than she could ever have imagined; she now knew he had a far greater potential for evil than she had ever realised.

  “I await your answer, my love,” her father said with terrifying tenderness. “You have brought about the deaths of thousands by refusing to join with me. You happily ended the life of your brother, my son, and you have just tried to kill another. Why?”

  There was a long frightened silence.

  “Because . . . I was loved less than I should have been! Because my brothers and my sister are beneath my contempt, unmagical as they are.” She felt a small spark of courage and defiance returning. She had nothing to lose by standing her ground. “And because I have chosen to follow the path of the Dark. I, at least, in this family of wooden warriors and cowardly makers of Magic, have the courage to accept my heritage!”

  “How strange, my beloved daughter, that you see succumbing to the temptation of evil as an act of courage, rather than the weak-minded selfish stupidity that it is. Do you not think that resisting its call takes all of my strength every second, every hour, every day of my life? Don’t you think I w
ould relish having the towering strength of the Dark?” He opened his mind, and the Dark flooded in. He allowed his daughter to see the depth of his strength, expanding to fill her watching senses to the brim.

  “And what, my dear daughter, should I do with my power?” His voice hissed like an angry cat. “With this I could blast Bellorum and his hideous sons from the plain of Frostmarris for ever.”

  “Then why don’t you, Father?” she asked, shocked.

  “Because to use evil Magic, even for good ends, poisons whatever is achieved. Don’t you understand, Medea? Bellorum would die and his army would be destroyed, undoubtedly. But the land would be destroyed in the process. What then, my beloved daughter? Should we rule a kingdom of ashes and death? Oh, my Gifted child, you disappoint me; you have forced me to learn that huge Magical potential, even in a human being who has been loved and nurtured with unflagging care, can be housed in the brain of a fool and a murderer.”

  “I need nothing more from you,” she spat back angrily. “Least of all a lecture. Kill me and have done!”

  “Very well, you shall die.”

  Medea was stunned. Even now she expected the gentle father she knew to regain control of his power and find some way to forgive her for what she had done. But a sneer of contempt played mercilessly around his mocking lips. She was helpless! The breath left her body in an explosive gasp and she fell flat on the floor.

  “You shall die, my daughter. Or at least you shall be as though dead to your family, to your country and to the mortal world. You will go to the Dark as you’ve always wanted; but you will go unprepared and without terms. You will enter that realm without having studied it, without having readied yourself for it. You may live, if you’re strong enough. More likely, you will be captured and tortured by your grandfather’s people, and your soul will become one more grain of ice in the frozen tundra of their realm.”