The Cry of the Icemark

23



Frostmarris lay on the plain before them, pristine in its blanket of snow. The white Wolffolk who’d drawn Thirrin’s sleigh during her journey to the northern lands were now acting as scouts and had been sent ahead to confirm that the city really was unoccupied, while the cavalry stayed hidden under the eaves of the forest. The werewolves had been gone for more than an hour, and Thirrin was beginning to consider sending out riders when a distance-thin howling sounded through the freezing air.

“What are they saying?” Thirrin asked Oskan impatiently, but he raised his hand to silence her while he concentrated.

At last he said, “Frostmarris is unoccupied by any living human people.”

“What does that mean?” Thirrin snapped.

He shrugged. “I’m only reporting their exact phrasing. But I suppose they mean there are no soldiers of the Empire in occupation.”

Tharaman-Thar stood sniffing the breeze that blew directly from Frostmarris, and after a moment said, “The city smells empty. I smell no human people, no horses, no dog-friends or cat-companions. Only rats and mice and the smaller creatures. Frostmarris is waiting to be reoccupied.”

Thirrin nodded. “Then mount up. My capital awaits.”

The cavalry swung out onto the plain in a double column of horse and leopard. The troopers rode smartly, their lances raised and pennants snapping in the wind, as Thirrin and the Thar stepped out with an awesome presence. Just behind them Jenny trotted along, twitching her woolly-warmer-covered ears and occasionally giving a little hiccupping bray that was quickly cut short when Oskan sharply tugged the reins.

Their pace soon ate up the distance between the forest and the city, and as they approached the main gates the tension rose. The setting sun made a fire of the great bronze Solstice Bell that hung above the barbican. Thirrin leaned forward in her saddle — only the greatest restraint stopped her from galloping ahead. Suddenly Grinelda, Leader of the white Wolffolk, appeared in the gateway, and throwing back her head she howled in greeting. The cavalry quickly climbed the winding track that led to the huge portcullis, where they reined to a halt.

The gates stood wide open, and a cold wind blasted through the long entrance tunnel, bringing with it a surprising lack of scents. Normally, the city would have smelled, or rather reeked, of wood smoke, dung, cattle, horses, baking bread, roasting meat, beer, and general humanity. But now it only breathed the breath of winter: snow and ice and emptiness.

Oskan looked at Thirrin, expecting a long rousing speech about reclaiming her rights and the symbolism of Frostmarris reoccupied. But instead she looked pale, and after staring along the tunnel for a while she said quietly, “Come on. Let’s go in.”

The rattle of iron-shod hooves on the cobblestones echoed around them as they emerged into the main thoroughfare. The streets looked the cleanest Oskan had ever seen them, under their unsullied blanket of snow. Only the almost humanlike paw prints of the Wolffolk scouts marked it in places, clearly showing where they’d searched through the buildings and streets for any sign of occupation. But all was empty.

Thirrin led the cavalry along the slowly climbing main street to the citadel. Here, too, the main gates stood open. She dismounted to walk across the wide courtyard, leading her horse. Then she turned and barked out orders to her commanders, who scurried off to stable horses, check barrack blocks, and post sentries on the walls of city and citadel. Then she walked to the double doors of the Great Hall and, followed by Oskan and Tharaman-Thar, she pushed them open and strode inside.

After the brilliance of the bright winter day, the hall seemed as black as night. Slowly their eyes adjusted and the huge, dark, cavernlike space became clear. The hammer-beam roof was still hung with its ancient battle standards, and at the far end the massive oaken throne still stood on its dais.

Thirrin strode forward, her boots ringing loud on the flagstones, and headed for the throne. On reaching the dais she quickly climbed it, and with an unconscious sense of ceremony, she sat down.

“Bring me light and life into this darkness!” Her voice boomed into the hall, and the space filled with scurrying soldiers and servants who lit the torches that lined the walls. One group of housecarls dragged a log through the doors and laid it in the central hearth. Then, bowing to Thirrin, they threw torches and glowing coals into the kindling and a great blaze leaped up. “Bring food into this hall! Bring bread and meat, bring beer and mead! Bring the salt and set it on a table before me!” Thirrin called again, not knowing where the words that leaped into her mind came from but happy to let them flow.

More and more servants hurried in, setting a table before the throne and rushing through the corridors beyond the Great Hall as they searched for the items and utensils of a living household. And as they hurried on their quests they opened doors and cupboards, shutters and windows, letting in the air, letting in the light of the day.

Now human and leopard soldiers spontaneously crowded into the hall from the courtyard. Before them sat their Queen on the Throne of the Icemark; beside her sat the mighty form of her ally Lord Tharaman-Thar of the Icesheets, and on the steps of the dais sat her chief adviser, Oskan the Warlock. An awed silence fell on the soldiers as they stared at the young warrior-queen, the towering leopard, and the powerful young warlock, but then a mighty cheer rose up, mingled with roaring and howling.

“We have returned! We have returned, my soldiers and beloved allies. And while we live, we will never leave again!” Thirrin called into the hall, her voice as high and as fierce as a hunting hawk’s cry. “Close the gates against the winter and our enemies, and with the spring let us be ready to defend the Icemark!”

Again the cheering rose into the rafters, and over it all, a high-pitched braying could be heard from the courtyard as Jenny joined in the celebration.

Out in the shadows of the city, in the houses and cellars, in the secret rooms and locked attics, a stirring could be sensed. The ghosts and spirits-of-place whispered and muttered on the edge of hearing, glided and flowed on the edge of sight. They were pleased with the turn of events; it was they who had driven the small garrison of Polypontian troops out to die in the snow. It was they who’d haunted their movements through the city. And it was they who had joined them on watch in the dark of the night, filling their minds with a slow-growing fear, which had evolved into a terror that had driven them mad.

Several had been shot by their own comrades, who had quite rightly been convinced that they were possessed, and others had thrown themselves from the battlements in the dead of night rather than face the horror of what they knew stood just behind them. And when the surviving members of the garrison had finally decided to risk sheltering in the forest, it was the ghosts who had followed them down to the gates, whispering and laughing on the edge of their minds, watching them set out into the storm that raged and howled beyond the barbican.

The ghosts and spirits-of-place were pleased with events. The Queen had returned, and some of the people, and the rest of the folk would one day come back and they could slip back into their minds, becoming the warp and the weft of legend and stories — becoming the fireside companions of long winter nights, living their lives for a while in the minds of the breathing, in the blood that still flowed, in the feelings that still thrilled to nerves that still sensed.

For a night and a night, the ghosts flowed through the streets, being careful not to frighten these soldiers of the land and their allies. For a night and a night, the guards on the walls were aware only of a light now and then or a sound like laughter caught on the wind. But then the ghosts settled back into their shadows, and waited again in the dark of the city, in the cellars and attics and lost secret rooms — waited for their people to return and give back the strength to their legends.

Elemnestra arrived in the city two days later. There were now thirty thousand soldiers garrisoned in the barrack blocks and in the houses throughout Frostmarris. The north road became a lifeline of supplies from the province of the Hypolitan, and was patrolled daily by cavalry. Over the next few weeks the plans of defense were put in place. It had early been decided not to stand siege locked up in Frostmarris, and so a series of deep trenches and embankments of earth were painstakingly dug from the frozen land of the plain. Concentric defensive rings surrounded the city, extending out to the eaves of the forest at the point where the road entered it. The thirty thousand soldiers were stretched a little thin in some places, but it was hoped that in the spring the fyrds from different parts of the country would come to help. There was also the question of the allies. The Wolffolk gathering was continuing, it was reported, but progress was slow. It could be well into spring before the muster was complete. And the Vampire King and Queen remained as elusive and enigmatic as ever. They were a law unto themselves, and would arrive to help if and when they chose.

In the meantime the Wolffolk scouts continued to spy on Scipio Bellorum, and reported massive troop movement coming through the pass from the Empire. In the south of the country where the general was based in the city of Inglesby, the first breath of spring could be felt. There wasn’t exactly a thaw, but at night the stones of the houses no longer cracked in freezing temperatures, and during the warmest parts of the day the ice and snow looked as though it just might start melting, given a little more encouragement.

Bellorum, like all brilliant generals, was well attuned to his surroundings and felt the change in the air. He smiled his grim smile and sent more messengers through the pass. His armies were gathering, and soon he’d be ready to unleash his attack. Before him lay a four-day march to the capital of this little land, but he was too sensible to strike north without first securing his rear. He’d learned his lesson during the winter when he’d lost thousands of troops in a blizzard on a reckless mission to seize the capital. But now he was once again in full command of his instincts. There were two cities and three major towns in this Southern Riding, as it was so uncouthly called by its inhabitants, and they needed to be captured and garrisoned before he moved on Frostmarris. Nothing would be left to chance this time. The Icemark needed a war that was precisely planned and ruthlessly executed, and both precision and ruthlessness were his forte.

He stretched his elegant legs out to the fire burning in the hearth before him and called the servant for wine. There were at least another ten days or so before things really got under way, and like many old campaigners, he was determined to enjoy the luxury of rest while it was still available. His general staff officers could handle the bread and butter of the logistics; as a true artist of war, he’d wait until the canvas was ready for the master’s hand.

Thirrin and Oskan looked out over the plain from the highest point of the city’s battlements. The moon was half full, and the frozen land glittered under the subtle light like a tray of frosted diamonds.

“Do you remember the journey to the Hub of the World?” Thirrin asked. “It’s odd, but it seems as if it happened only yesterday, and then again in another life, both at the same time.”

“Yes,” Oskan agreed. “Yesterday and years ago. I’d never have believed it while it was happening, but now I feel that it was one of the best times of my life. Nothing to think about but the journey ahead. Nothing else to fear but the fact that we might die, which somehow helped to make everything else seem completely unimportant.”

Thirrin snuggled down farther into her cloak, then said, “Do you know, there was one point when I could have wished the journey would last for all time. We’d just seen the northern lights, the sky seemed on fire, and the werewolves were pounding on through the dark, and I felt completely … at peace. There’s no other way of putting it. I’m sure if we’d died then, we’d have just traveled on into forever….”

Oskan looked at her. “Hey, where’s my warrior-queen, ready to fight for her place in Valhalla?”

“She’s just a bit tired, Oskan. And scared.”

He stopped his jaw from dropping open just in time, but then recovered quickly. “Well, as to that, I bet the most seasoned housecarls are wetting themselves. We’re facing Scipio Bellorum and his disciplined madmen. You’ve got a right to be scared; we all have.”

Thirrin didn’t answer for a while, then when she finally spoke, some of the usual steel had crept back into her voice. “I don’t want you to think I’m scared of dying. It’s not that. It’s not that at all. It’s more that I’m afraid of failing, of letting down the House of Lindenshield. I’m carrying centuries of expectations and responsibilities. Everybody wants me to tell them what to do, and at the same time they want me to live up to the legacy of all the Ironsides, Bears of the North, and Spear Maidens. And sometimes it’s just too much….”

Unable to think of anything constructive to say, Oskan put his arm around her shoulder and said, “I’m happy for you just to be Thirrin.”

At that moment the heavy tread of a housecarl sounded outside, and they leaped apart as though scolded. Approaching along the narrow walkway was the captain of the guard, and with him walked Tharaman-Thar.

“Report, Captain Osgood,” Thirrin barked a little too sharply.

“All’s quiet, My Lady. Apart from one idiot who slipped on the steps and has probably broken his wrist. If My Lord, Oskan, could have a look at him —”

“My Lord Oskan has enough to do without tending to every half-drunken housecarl who misses his footing on the ice.”

“It was a cavalry trooper, actually, Ma’am,” Captain Osgood answered.

“Well, whoever!” Thirrin snapped again. “My adviser’s too busy.”

The captain saluted silently and moved on to complete his rounds, leaving Tharaman-Thar to look searchingly at his ally.

“I’ve been thinking about the healing side of things, Thirrin. Captain Osgood has just reminded me,” said Oskan. “We’ve got most of it organized, but the witches with their healers’ skills aren’t here yet, and we’ve still got a way to go before the infirmary’s ready. Converting an old stable to a place of healing takes a lot of work, and I’ve been shirking my share of the effort. I think I’d better go and help.”

“Whatever you think is necessary,” Thirrin answered, recognizing the good sense of his words but still in an uncertain mood after Oskan’s embrace.

“Good, I’ll get on to that now, then. And while I’m at it, I’ll take a look at that trooper’s wrist,” he said, and scurried off as though feeling guilty about something.

“The Queen and her Warlock seem uneasy,” said Tharaman-Thar when they were alone.

Thirrin looked at him, annoyed. “It’s quite bad enough being only fourteen without having to fight a war and run a country as well. Do you wonder that ‘the Queen and her Warlock seem uneasy’?”

“No, I suppose not,” said the leopard. “But sometimes even warriors have to admit they’re just people before all else. And queens who are still girls, and warlocks who are still boys, should allow themselves to be young once in a while.”

“We haven’t the time, Tharaman.”

“No, I suppose not. There are many who are looking to a time after the war to start living their lives again.”

“If that’s an unsubtle attempt to tell me there are people worse off than myself, save yourself the effort. I’m well aware of that, but it doesn’t make it one bit easier to deal with my own problems,” Thirrin answered irritably. “To be really honest, I think if anybody did derive comfort from the fact that ‘there’s always someone worse off than yourself,’ they’d have to be a pretty sad and sick individual. If I’ve sprained my wrist, I’m not made happier by the thought that someone somewhere has broken their leg!”

“Well, that’s telling me,” said Tharaman humorously. “Now that I’ve been put thoroughly in my place, might I humbly suggest that we go inside and have some more of that delicious mulled wine we had earlier with Olememnon?”

Thirrin suddenly smiled and hugged the huge leopard. “Oh, I’m sorry, Tharaman. I’ve been snappy with everyone recently. I suppose I’m fed up with waiting for things to start happening. I just want to get on with it and reach whatever conclusion is destined.”

“Well, that goes for me, too. But while we’ve got a breathing space, let’s try and enjoy it.” A deep rumbling purr vibrated through his chest, and he laughed. “Olememnon has challenged me to a drinking contest. The first one to fall asleep is the loser. I think I’ll take him up on it now.”

“Is that a good idea? Elemnestra won’t be pleased.”

“Won’t she? Good. Come on, you can be referee.”