Blade Of Fire (Book 2)

by Stuart Hill

  Oskan raised his arms, and a huge tear appeared in the wall of Medea’s tower. With one command he had opened the fabric of the world. Terrified, Medea looked behind her at the gaping hole and felt the deadly cold pouring into the room. A deep abiding sense of despair seeped into her mind. At last, Medea had realised the true nature of that which she most desired.

  “No! Father, wait! I do understand. Now I see I’m wrong to want the power of the Dark. Don’t banish me to that emptiness!” On her knees, she begged for forgiveness and mercy, pleading with her father, the only living thing she had ever loved.

  But, standing above her, Oskan only smiled tenderly and shook his head. “Too late, my child. Too late.”

  And suddenly, her body was seized by some unseen force and she was dragged, screaming and kicking, through the wall of the tower and down into the Dark.

  Where was he? Thirrin gazed out over the plain to the Great Forest, and gasped. Galloping out of the dark trees was another army. There were striped horses, rock trolls, zombies, werewolves, and thousands and thousands of the soldiers of the Holly and Oak Kings. And leading these new allies on a fine black horse was Sharley! Thirrin’s eyes filled with tears. The sight was incredible!

  With a roar, the army leaped into the charge and swept down on the flanks of the Imperial army.

  “Fly! Fly like the wind, my friend!” Sharley whispered into Suleiman’s ear. “Today will be a red day, a death day! Today the Empire will die!” And with a scream of challenge the small black horse charged forward.

  They crashed into the Polypontian ranks, carving through them like a hot coal through ice. Hardly slowing, Ketshaka’s Lusu warriors sang the ferocity of their death chants as they drove forward over the falling soldiers. The great Queen smote all about her with a huge mace, laughing as she killed. Mekhmet rode beside her, proclaiming the mystery of his belief.

  “There is no God but the One, and Mighty is his Messenger!”

  All the soldiers of the Desert Kingdom took up the cry. Thousands fell before them, and the entire Imperial army writhed in agony as they carved through its cumbersome mass.

  Sharley rode at the glittering, deadly killing point of a mighty spear that was his army. Never since the days of the Frankish King Charlemagne, his namesake, had the cavalry of the Desert People ridden their neat, powerful horses in the lands of the north. Never had the lightning precision of the scimitar flashed and flickered in such a vicious hail of killing. But now they had returned, and with them came the mighty Lusu, brave and joyful warriors who killed as they sang their battle-chants, and who rode steeds that were striped as night and day.

  The Polypontian ranks watched their advance in horror, and with a roar of despair, many turned and fled.

  But in the midst of the Imperial host, Octavius turned to face the threat. Rallying his elite regiment of cavalry he advanced at a trot, arrogant hand on arrogant hip. No one was going to deny the Empire this final victory over the barbarian rabble – he would personally see to that! He raised his sword, and nodding to the bugler, gave the order to charge.

  With a deadly elegance the personal regiment of Octavius Bellorum flowed over the land, their hooves raising a mighty roar of power as they thundered on and smashed into the advancing enemy. Sharley and Mekhmet met the charge, and the roar of onset rang into the air. Sabre clashed with scimitar, and the screams of the dead and dying rose up to join with the smoke of the burning city.

  But then some desperate instinct made Sharley turn his head. Mekhmet! Through the mass of struggling warriors, Sharley watched in horror as Mekhmet’s horse, Jaspat, stumbled over a fallen enemy soldier. For a moment the Prince’s bodyguard fought to get to him as he struggled to regain control of his horse, but before they could reach him, the fallen Imperial trooper thrust his sabre deep into Mekhmet’s chest.

  “NO!” Sharley screamed. Reining Suleiman round to ride to his friend’s aid, he came face to face with the cold and arrogant countenance of an elegantly uniformed Polypontian officer.

  “Would you run, coward, before I’ve had a chance to cut you down?” asked a coldly sneering voice.

  Distracted and distraught, Sharley hardly heard him. Already the tide of battle was flowing towards where Mekhmet had fallen. He must reach him before he was trampled beneath the hooves of the cavalry.

  “So good to see the Commander of the enemy horse is preparing to flee the field! No doubt his troopers will all go with him. As is the way with all cowards,” the arrogant voice gloated.

  Even in his grief and fear for Mekhmet, Sharley knew the enemy officer was right. Already the cavalry of the Desert Kingdom was faltering, now that their Prince had fallen. Weeping for his friend, he raised his scimitar and called his battle-name aloud to rally the troopers.

  “What chance has an army that needs to be taught the fundamentals of command by their enemy?” taunted the sneering voice.

  “You begin to bother me!” Sharley snapped, his fighting spirit rising again. Suleiman caught his mood, and with a scream leaped towards the enemy horse.

  With a whirl of blade on blade Sharley and Octavius fought. Trading blow for blow they circled and cut, parried and slashed, until with a contemptuous gesture the officer lowered his sabre and spat. “You’re spawn of the Lindenshield clan. I see your red hair and green eyes even disguised under your armour.”

  “I wear no disguise. I am Charlemagne Athelstan Redrought Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Shadow of the Storm, and I will have your blood in reparation for the harm you have done my land!”

  Octavius laughed. “Your land is mine, little Princeling!”

  “Oh, I think not, whelp of the Empire. Your life is mine!”

  “If you believe that is so, Lindenshield, you should know with whom you fight,” he answered with searing contempt. “I am Commander Octavius Domitian Lycurgus Bellorum, son of the mighty General who has defeated your pathetic little land.”

  Sharley’s eyes widened fractionally. “Then all the greater will be my pleasure when you die.” And they leaped back into the fight.

  Time seemed to slow for Sharley as he circled his enemy. Nothing else existed beyond the small theatre of their contest. Sound itself was reduced to the clatter and clang of scimitar on sabre. And yet, during that entire clash of culture and wills, of fighting styles and personal loathing, not once did the look of supreme contempt leave Octavius’ face. It was that which drove Sharley on, until with a lightning flash of his scimitar he chopped at his enemy’s neck, and the head leaped from its shoulders and rolled away. Even then, he noticed with interest, the sneer still curled his enemy’s lip.

  A gasp rose up from the Imperial cavalry. Octavius was dead! As simply as that, the great and vicious son of the mighty Bellorum clan had been killed! For a moment they stared, unable to believe the true horror of the deed. They looked at one another, uncertain what to do. The impossible had happened – the Commander was dead!

  Then, as one, they turned their horses and fled.

  On the far side of the plain, Scipio Bellorum and his second son were leading their cavalry in a huge sweep around the twin shield walls of the defenders. They knew nothing of Sharley’s arrival, and wouldn’t have cared less if they had. They were fixed determinedly on one target and one alone: the hated Queen of the Icemark. If she fell, the war would be over and the Empire would at last be victorious!

  The General smiled coldly as the galloping hooves of his cavalry ate up the ground; closer and closer they drew to the locked shields of the housecarles and to the seemingly impenetrable barrier of the Snow Leopards and werewolves. He was close enough now to see the white pelts of the Queen’s Ukpik bodyguard gleaming in the light of the burning city. Well, this time they would die! This time they would all die! He set the steel fingers of his war-hand into a claw of razors and slashed the air.

  Behind the barrier, Cressida was watching the events on the field, open-mouthed with amazement. Sharley had returned, and with an army! She was so elated, she was almost in a daz
e. But then, all of a sudden, she sensed something was wrong. Her military instinct warned her to look to the flanks. And there, in the distance, she saw a huge phalanx of enemy cavalry. In a split second she’d taken in the direction of the horses, and the long glittering lances, and that the phalanx was being led by Bellorum himself. Now she knew exactly where they were heading.

  There was hardly time to think, but she knew they must be stopped before they reached the shield wall. She couldn’t take too many soldiers, or the integrity and strength of the formation would be weakened. Then a solution occurred, and she rushed to Grinelda Blood-tooth.

  “The Queen is targeted by Bellorum!” she said, pointing to the cavalry. “Bring the bodyguard and tell no one!”

  The huge Commander of the Ukpiks nodded, and within seconds Cressida was running at the head of a snarling ravening wedge of werewolves towards the ever-closing cavalry.

  But the General saw them coming, and thundering to meet the Icemark Princess he sneered in contempt. Nothing could thwart him now!

  With a deafening roar the two forces met. Horses fell screaming, werewolves howled, housecarle and trooper bellowed their war cries, and the charge was stopped dead.

  Cressida’s sword flashed and darted like a striking snake, felling every Imperial trooper who came against her. “Bellorum! Bellorum!” she screamed above the din of battle. “Show yourself! Fight me now and lose more than your hand!”

  Sulla heard her cry and forced his horse forward, his long cavalry sabre slicing throat and skewering chest as he surged towards her. With a final heave he was through, and Cressida stood before him.

  “Here, Lindenshield!” he yelled.

  The Crown Princess swung round and glared at him. “I called for the jackal, not its pitiful whelp!”

  Without retort Sulla’s horse leaped forward. Cressida stepped aside, and with an almost contemptuous flick of her wrist she drove her sword deep into Sulla’s stomach as he stormed past. He fell screaming, and with a following sweep of her blade she smashed open his helmet and head. “So die you all!”

  Scipio Bellorum screamed in frustration as his cavalry faltered and fell before the raging attack. He’d lost sight of Sulla in the chaos, and glared about desperately as he fought to regain control and initiative.

  “Fall back!” he roared. “Fall back and regroup!”

  A bugler took up the order and the brassy, cracked notes blared out.

  The cavalry withdrew and gathered about the figure of their General, who stood in his stirrups, sword aloft. They turned, redressed their ranks and stared at the force of werewolves raging before them. They’d closed into a tight fighting unit and were moving forward at a crouching run, predatory and hideous. Cressida laughed as they advanced, and the Wolf-folk snarled and roared, revealing their huge teeth and bright red tongues.

  All of a sudden, the cavalry troopers’ fear of the terrible inhuman enemy became greater than that they felt for Bellorum. A murmuring and muttering swelled through the Imperial ranks, and the horses neighed in panic.

  Bellorum stood in his stirrups.

  “Stand! Stand, all of you, or die on the hangman’s gibbet! Stand or die in disgrace!” he raged as he fought to regain control of his soldiers. “You’ve killed enough of them already. One more charge and they’ll be crushed!”

  But, like a wind blowing against a bank of mist, the cavalry turned and fled. The General watched them go, and with quiet deliberation he sheathed his sword. In his calculating brain there was no room for heroics. He spat at the advancing infantry phalanx, and galloped away.

  Sharley glanced at the headless corpse of Octavius Bellorum, feeling neither elated nor repulsed. There was no time for that; the battle still had to be won. Turning in his saddle, he raised his hand and watched the motley infantry of monsters and zombies, humans and ghosts hasten to join him, and together they drove into the massed Imperial ranks. Thousands fell in the first few minutes as chaos and panic gripped the massive army.

  But deep in his chest, Sharley carried a burning pain for his fallen friend.

  At last, Thirrin felt a shift, the slightest change of atmosphere. The Imperial army was no longer . . . certain. Their ranks wavered; something was coming! Something was approaching.

  Like a many-headed animal the host swayed, and at last turned to face its worst fears.

  With a roar the ranks broke apart, and a neat black horse leaped through. It reared and screamed fiercely, its rider holding aloft a shining scimitar.

  Thirrin stared.

  The figure seized the rim of his helmet and swept it off, releasing his hair to blaze in a red halo about his head.

  “They are broken! The enemy is broken! Come out, drive them from the land! Mother, come out and join me!”

  Thirrin fell to her knees. “Sharley! It is you!”

  Tharaman roared, and scrambling to her feet Thirrin leaped on to his back. “The enemy is among us! They burn our houses and kill our children! BLOOD! BLAST! AND FIRE! BLOOD! BLAST! AND FIRE!”

  Now the cavalry of the Icesheets roared their response, and charged, human trooper astride leopard comrade, driving the enemy before them.

  With a despairing wail the Polypontian army broke and fled. Horsemen of the Desert Kingdom had magically appeared to ride them down; monsters and ghosts tore into them. Vampires and giant Snowy Owls swooped down on them, tearing out their throats and drinking their blood. Werewolves tore them limb from limb, and worst of all, a giant woman with black skin led a cavalry of striped horses to kill them.

  They ran and died, still amazed that such an alliance had been brought against them. The rout was complete, and soon their huge numbers had choked the escape routes and they turned at bay to die in their thousands before the ferocity of the Icemark.

  CHAPTER 38

  Scipio Bellorum stood in chains at the centre of the battlefield. He’d almost escaped. But as his horse had thundered down the road to the south and to safety, a party of Vampires had swept out of the sky and plucked him from the saddle.

  He now stood before Thirrin and Her Vampiric Majesty, apparently at arrogant ease though surrounded by a guard of werewolves, housecarles and Vampires. The rest of the allied High Command were mopping up under Cressida’s direction, and Oskan was desperately fighting to save lives with few resources and little energy.

  “How shall we kill him, Your Majesty?” the Vampire Queen asked, licking her fangs.

  Thirrin took a long time to reply, but eventually she said, “I’m not sure.” She’d waited so long for this moment that it seemed somehow unreal.

  Her Vampiric Majesty looked at her, fierce hatred for the defeated General lighting her eyes. “Then give him to me! I can assure you I’ll find many entertaining ways to dispatch him!”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Bellorum said in an arrogant drawl. “The Empire would invade with another full force within a month if they knew you’d murdered me.”

  “Could you actually be murdered, Bellorum? Such a crime requires humanity on the part of the victim, and I truly believe you possess none,” said Thirrin with quiet venom.

  The Vampire Queen laughed. “Anyway, General,” she snarled, “you’re fooling no one. We’ve found your papers, and Maggiore Totus has already translated them. The Empire’s on fire; there’s war in the south and the Imperial armies are losing. They couldn’t start a war of revenge even if they dared! You’re already dead, my dear Bellorum – though if I have anything to do with it, it’s going to take you a very long time to realise it!”

  “One thing,” Thirrin said. “Did your ambition match the scale of the sacrifice? Did what you wanted to achieve really merit all this death and destruction?”

  He smiled coldly. “Oh, yes. You’ve never actually understood, have you, that as far as I and the Empire are concerned, your lives are of no value. The defeat of this insignificant little land and the killing of its entire population was of no real importance to anyone. The cost would have been negligible.”

  An ang
ry murmur rose up from the soldiers who guarded him, but Thirrin raised her hand for silence. “But, Scipio, this ‘insignificant little land’ and its allies have defeated you twice. If you consider us to be of no value, what then is your worth if you can’t overthrow us?”

  “A quibble of words with no bearing on the war,” he answered dismissively. “You and your lands are worthless, that is the beginning and end of the matter. Therefore all of the Redroughts, Cerdics, Vampire Kings, and countless others who died in the fighting are equally worthless.”

  This time a great shout of anger rose up from the guards, and Thirrin went white with rage. “Do you really believe that you are immune to death, Bellorum?”

  “Immune to death?” The General looked puzzled. “Oh, you won’t kill me, Lindenshield. You wouldn’t dare.”

  Thirrin was momentarily shocked into silence. Did he really believe he wouldn’t be executed?

  “I am the greatest General the world has ever known, and there is not a living person who would dare spill my blood.”

  “But I’m dead, Bellorum,” said the Vampire Queen. “And I can assure you that I not only dare to spill your blood, I’ll be very happy to drink it too!”

  Thirrin raised her hand for silence. “I was going to keep you until such time as a show trial for all the people of the Icemark could be arranged. But I no longer have the patience for that.”

  Bellorum’s expression gradually changed from defiance to panic, and then to terror as he at last realised he was about to die.

  “I demand a fair trial!” he bellowed, his eyes huge with fear, as he finally understood that he too was mortal after all.

  Thirrin laughed. “Oh, I don’t think so, General. When have you ever offered anyone a fair trial?”

  With the greatest of care, Thirrin drew her sword and looked Bellorum full in the face. For the second time in her life, she stared into the eyes of her hated enemy. Then, with a triumphant roar, she cried out: “The enemy is among us! They’ll burn our houses and kill our children no more! Blood! Blast! And Fire!” and she brought down the blade, whistling and flashing in a vicious arc, and sliced cleanly through Bellorum’s neck. His head fell from his shoulders and bounced away, its eyes starting from their sockets as though enraged, before finally coming to rest, face down, in a puddle of mud.