The Cry of the Icemark

32



Maggiore Totus sat quietly at his desk. At his elbow was a glass of wine and, despite the warmth and brilliance of the early summer day, a candle burned in the stick next to his papers and a fire danced in the hearth. Grimswald, the ancient Chamberlain-of-the-Royal-Paraphernalia, had “adopted” Maggie as his own personal charge and made sure that the old scholar always had everything he needed, even if sometimes he did overdo things. Maggie was tidying the notes he’d made while watching the cavalry battle from the walls of Frostmarris, and adding to them the eyewitness accounts of Thirrin’s duel with General Bellorum.

“All very exciting and satisfactory, Primplepuss,” he murmured to the small cat, who lay in a patch of sunlight on his desk. She meowed quietly and had a quick wash.

“The Queen came close to killing the old devil, and she’s certainly put him out of action for the foreseeable future. But even so, it’s his mind we need to fear more than his fighting ability, and I suppose that’s as sharp and as ruthless as ever.”

The army of the Polypontian Empire still held its position on the rising ground to the south of the plain around Frostmarris and showed no signs of leaving, despite the defeat and severe wounding of their general. In fact, they were being reinforced on a daily basis, according to Thirrin’s white werewolf guards, who continued to act as spies.

“I think we can expect a renewed attack at any time, and if our other allies don’t arrive soon, they’ll have nothing to do but bury our dead,” Maggie continued to his audience of one small cat. Unlike Thirrin and Tharaman, he still believed that Grishmak and his werewolves would honor their agreement and that even the Vampires would fulfill their obligations to their treaty with the Icemark — but timing was all-important, and the Empire might yet deliver its final blow before they were ready.

“We can only hope for miracles, Primplepuss,” he went on. “Speaking of which, I have an appointment.” Climbing to his feet, he stroked the cat until she purred, then left his room and headed out along the twisting corridors of the palace. He was on his way to the infirmary.

Over the last two days he’d become very good at avoiding the witches as he made his way down to the cellar in the infirmary building. They were often far too busy to notice one old man walking quietly along, and it was a simple business to reach the cellar, collect a torch from one of the sconces on the wall, and then carefully descend the wet and broken steps that led to the cave.

Now, as he held the torch high over his head, he could see the pitted and worn treads that corkscrewed sharply to the right as the spiral stairwell disappeared into the black depths. The now familiar scent of damp earth rose up to meet him, as did the constant drip and splash of water. He was smiling to himself as he picked his way carefully down the steps. During his visits he’d been watching the progress of a miracle, and he fully expected to be further astonished when he once more raised his torch over Oskan. But even though it was an incredibly happy event occurring at a time of so much fear and destruction, he hadn’t told anyone else about it. Not even Thirrin, who probably had more right than anyone else to know. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d kept it secret, and if his logical scientist’s brain analyzed his motives, it shied away from drawing the most obvious conclusion: Maggiore Totus had a superstitious dread that if too many people knew, then the miracle would stop and Oskan would die.

At last he reached the bottom of the broken stairwell and stepped out across the muddy floor. He knew the way perfectly by now and hardly needed the torch; its light would be used purely to observe the wonder. Over against the far wall he could just make out the low bed, and he hurried forward. He splashed to a halt before the prone figure of the injured warlock and held up his torch; as the shadows fled, he gasped aloud. The long tendrils of mucus and serum that hung from Oskan’s body had developed into ropes of skin that buried themselves deep into the thick, rich mud of the cave floor, and they pulsed slightly as he looked at them. But most astonishing of all was Oskan himself. He was almost perfect. All of the burned skin had sloughed away, to be replaced with healthy pink flesh that seemed to glow under the torchlight. His hands, lying folded on his chest, were shapely and smooth, and his facial features had been completely rebuilt so that the familiar expression of faint amusement presented itself to the world once more. Not only that, but Oskan actually seemed to have grown taller, his legs reaching much farther down the bed than when the healers had first left him in the cave. And even his hair was growing back, a dark fuzz clouding the new skin, like down on a hatchling.

Maggiore laughed aloud for joy, but then when Oskan’s eyelids twitched and he seemed about to wake, he clamped his hand over his mouth. The old scholar knew that the healing sleep was not yet finished and he quietly withdrew so as not to disturb it. He paused only to sink his hands into the mineral-rich mud and thank the Goddess for her gift of healing. Then, taking up his torch, he hurried back up the steps.

Scipio Bellorum sat in his chair rather than lying in bed as the surgeons had wanted. The stump of his wrist still throbbed where they’d cauterized the arteries with red-hot irons and sealed the wound by dipping it in boiling pitch. The pain that had erupted along his arm from the outraged nerve endings had been received in stony silence by the general, who’d redirected the agony to feed a massive rage and determination for revenge. And after the best doctors the Empire could furnish had finished butchering him, he’d willed himself to stand and walk to the entrance of his tent, where he’d presented himself to the waiting army.

There’d been no cheering from the soldiers at his bravery and pure undiluted willpower, just a low buzz of respect. Every one of his men knew that he was one of the toughest in the army; this little display had merely confirmed it, and had also begun a slow realization that Scipio Bellorum was quite mad. His many enemies had known this for years, but it was an insanity that was happily and knowingly embraced by Bellorum himself. He hid it behind a facade of rationality and control that had allowed him to use its energy to reach the heights of his ambitions. What other psychopath had killed as many as he in his long campaigns, or reached the levels of personal power that placed him second only to the Emperor in the world’s greatest Empire? Madness was a handicap only if you couldn’t control its irrationalities. If, like Bellorum, you could, the potential was almost limitless.

He’d returned from his presentation to the army safe in the knowledge that he still retained their respect — their love he’d have had no use for — and to drive home his standing, he’d had the officers whose squadrons had performed poorly in the battle whipped in front of their men. It was silently acknowledged by all that his own shortcomings had been punished enough by the loss of his hand.

Within hours, he’d begun training with the weapons master to learn how to use a saber with his left hand. Riding would be easy; cavalry mounts were mostly guided by the rider’s knees, anyway, and a shield could easily be modified to his needs. He’d returned from his training alight with the possibilities. All defensive and fighting methods were geared toward a right-handed opponent. What glorious confusion he could cause! That night he’d gone to bed far from disappointed; the army was still his to dominate and manipulate as he chose, and soon even the supreme abilities of the Icemark’s defenders would be swept aside. Even they couldn’t resist a host of more than half a million; it was simply impossible.

His experiences had also forced him to reach a conclusion about the people of the Icemark. They were clearly ungovernable, so when the war was won, he’d convince the Emperor to allow him to “cleanse” the land and repopulate it with model citizens from south of the border. The true potential of the new country could then be opened up, and the huge mineral reserves and timber stocks more fully exploited for the good of the Empire. And when he’d finally tidied up this annoyingly drawn-out campaign, he’d rest the army for six months before beginning another action somewhere to the south, where the opposition wouldn’t be too stiff and the soldiers could regain their pride.

Only the ache and throb in his injured wrist reminded him of the failure of the day. Somewhere, deep in his mind, his madness glowed like a banked-down fire, waiting for the opportunity to blaze into raging life. But for now, Scipio Bellorum kept it under control and bided his time.

Thirrin hadn’t been back to the infirmary since they’d taken Oskan down to the cave. She was afraid of what they might tell her. She knew that if anything happened to him, they would bring her news of it, but when it came, she expected it to be bad. For the past few days every servant and housecarl who’d approached her had been held in her steely glare until they’d walked by saluting or had given her an unrelated message of one sort or another.

She now sat in the Great Hall polishing Bellorum’s saber, while Tharaman-Thar slept by the fire with Primplepuss. Down on the defenses the nuisance raids continued as the Polypontians kept the defenders busy, but there was no immediate danger. It was well known that the enemy was preparing for a final assault, and when it came, everyone would know about it.

She was resigned to the coming defeat. But not one of her soldiers suspected that their Queen believed the coming assault would sweep them aside, to end the nation of the Icemark and the ruling House of Lindenshield. Outwardly Thirrin appeared as confident and as strong as ever, but she had despaired of help ever arriving. She had only one ambition left, and that was to live long enough to kill Bellorum, the man who was responsible for all the disasters of the last few months. Her father was dead, her kingdom was as good as lost, and her greatest friend lay burned beyond recognition and was probably dying even now, if he wasn’t already dead. Only the discipline of her military training, her pride, and her towering hatred of Bellorum kept her going.

She added a final glittering sheen to the saber, and prayed that she might use it to cut out the heart of General Scipio Bellorum. Then she rammed it back into the scabbard she’d found for it in the armory, the metallic ring of the blade immediately waking Tharaman-Thar, who raised his mighty head and glared around the hall in search of enemies. Finding none, he yawned enormously, his teeth gleaming in the torchlight.

“Has the assault begun?” he asked.

“No, there’s still time for something to eat if you’re hungry,” Thirrin answered, knowing that he would be.

“Well, perhaps a small ox would suffice,” he answered, and nodded at a watchful chamberlain, who hurried over. “Beef, my good man, and perhaps a little something for the Queen?” he said, and looked questioningly at her.

“Why not,” she answered decisively. “A cold meat pie and some bread.”

The chamberlain headed for the kitchens, and Tharaman nodded approvingly at her. “That’s right, my dear. You must keep up your strength.”

She smiled despite the desperation of their position. There were times when the giant leopard reminded her of her father, but with a more refined accent. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to starve myself. I want to be fit and well when I next meet Bellorum,” she said.

“If he dares show his face in battle again.”

“He’d better. Otherwise I’ll go looking for him. We have unfinished business.”

“Yes,” Tharaman agreed, and bent his head to help Primplepuss wash herself. “But you have to accept that he may die from his injuries. The Empire doesn’t have the advantage of witchcraft to help heal the wounded.” He rose to his feet and fetched Primplepuss back from the middle of the floor, where his cleaning tongue had sent her flying. “I’m sorry, my sweeting,” he said to the little cat as he bent and gently picked her up in his giant jaws.

“Perhaps we could send Wenlock Witchmother over to their lines under truce,” Thirrin suggested, only half joking.

“Unacceptable cruelty,” the leopard said after a few moments’ thought.

The arrival of the food interrupted their conversation for a while, but after they’d been served and the scullions had withdrawn, Thirrin said, “The werewolves think they’ll attack tonight.”

“Really? Isn’t that rather unusual for humans?” asked Tharaman, who was used to the Ice Troll Wars fought in the long night of the northern winter.

“Yes, very. I think they hope to unnerve us.”

“How refreshingly naive of Bellorum. There’s hope yet.”

Thirrin smiled sadly. “No, there’s not.”

A commotion at the great double doors of the hall drew their attention, and they watched as Olememnon made his way across the floor toward them. “Ah, food!” he called, and smiled. “I could eat an ox, and I see Tharaman already has.”

Thirrin waved at the chamberlain, who nodded and hurried off to the kitchens. “How are the defenses?” she asked automatically.

“Fine, fine. Bellorum’s sent the usual party of pike and musket across to keep us busy, but nothing too worrying. The Basilea sent me off to get some food and a rest before it all starts tonight.”

Thirrin glanced at him sharply, but he smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to have a nervous breakdown because a new Basilea is giving me orders. I’ve been working with her for days now; she’s good. And anyway, I’ve known Iffi since she was a girl. Though now I have to call her Iphigenia, and when any of the troops are nearby, I address her as Ma’am. It’s all she can do not to giggle sometimes.”

“How’s morale?” Tharaman asked.

“Good. At least on the surface it is. Have you noticed how none of the troops mention the arrival of the allies anymore?”

“Yes,” Tharaman answered quietly. “They seem to have acquired a strength and dignity in their despair.”

“I think we all have,” said Thirrin, confident enough in her uncle’s recovery from his earlier grief to reveal her own feelings.

“You, too, eh?” Olememnon said in surprise. “Funny, but only myself and Maggie still expect them to turn up.” He reached across and patted her knee. “Don’t worry, they’re on their way. They’re just cutting it a little close, that’s all.”

The chamberlain then returned with Olememnon’s meal, and her uncle turned his undivided attention to the slabs of meat and loaves of bread.