The Cry of the Icemark

34



Oskan watched as Thirrin and her allies drove the army of the Polypontian Empire from the field. He continued ringing the huge Solstice Bell, its deep note sweeping over the night and adding a melodious counterpoint to the awful sounds of battle. But then, gradually, he allowed the ringing to stop as he looked out over the plain, feeling small and unwanted. Even the soldiers who’d been left on garrison duty had run down to join the battle, and his sense of loneliness was increased by the melancholy sighing of a gentle wind that stirred his newly grown hair and brought with it a scent of the forest.

But then he noticed a distant and dark flying figure that had detached itself from the black of the night. It circled slowly as though looking for something, then it dived toward the city. Soon it was flying overhead and screeching a hideous call. One of the Vampires had decided to pay him a visit for some reason, and Oskan shuddered in the warm night. He watched as the creature folded its leathery wings and landed a few feet from where he stood.

The giant bat was awkward on the ground; its small, clawed feet minced over the stonework of the parapet and its wings rattled and billowed as it tried to keep its balance. Its face was pointed, with a wide mouth that bristled needle-sharp teeth and two huge fangs, which glittered in the moonlight.

“Oskan the Warlock,” a feminine voice said mockingly.

“Do I know you?”

“Oh yes. Just a moment and I’ll make things clearer,” the bat answered, and as Oskan watched, the vicious foxlike face trickled and ran like wax before a flame. The ears and fur retracted and new features gradually began to form. Soon a tall and loathsomely beautiful woman stood before him, dressed in elegant black armor. “Do you recognize me now, Oskan the Warlock?”

“Your Majesty,” he said in greeting, bowing his head to the Vampire Queen.

“My, haven’t you grown?” she said, running her eyes appreciatively over him and licking her fangs. “Still, I’m much stronger than I look. I’ll easily be able to carry you.”

“Carry me?”

“To your beloved. She’s reached the enemy camp and is having a conference with her allies. Surely you want to be there?”

“Well … yes.”

“Good.” Her Vampiric Majesty then turned her back on him and, peering over her shoulder, said, “Then climb aboard.”

As Oskan watched, she resumed her bat form, the black armor flowing into the leathery wings and her long hair somehow metamorphosing into pointed ears. After a moment’s hesitation, Oskan stepped forward and placed his arms around her neck.

“Oh, what a strong grip for such a young man. What delightful promise the years must hold,” came the mocking voice as she leaped into the air and her wings beat down powerfully. They surged skyward, and wheeled out over the plain. The battlements of Frostmarris fell dizzyingly away, and the ground ran and flowed below them as they sped toward the enemy camp.

Oskan hardly dared open his eyes after the takeoff, but eventually he peered out at the sky, its dense field of glittering stars subdued by the power of the full moon that drenched the night with the glory of its subtle light. Then he looked over Her Vampiric Majesty’s shoulder and stared down at the ground. The sight was grim. Everywhere he looked, bodies lay in heaps where the army of the Empire had been broken and the rout had begun. Under the light of the moon, the armor and weapons gleamed and flashed as Oskan flew overhead, and the dead soldiers lying in their tangled and broken heaps looked like the abstract patterns that marked the pages of illuminated books. It was almost as though the night were mocking his horror with an unlooked-for beauty, and he closed his eyes on the sight.

They’d soon crossed the plain and were circling in long spirals down to the ground. The Vampire Queen landed softly outside Bellorum’s campaign tent. She resumed her human form, took Oskan’s hand, then stepped elegantly through the entrance and into the wide space where the general had discussed tactics. Inside, Thirrin sat at a large table with Tharaman-Thar, Basilea Iphigenia, King Grishmak of the Wolffolk, and His Vampiric Majesty. Behind them stood Olememnon, Thirrin’s bodyguard of white werewolves, and other high-ranking officers.

Waiting until she had the attention of all present, the Vampire Queen stepped forward and smiled.

Immediately Thirrin jumped to her feet.

“Oskan!” she whispered. The drama of the battle had forced her to put aside all memory of the fact that it was the warlock who’d told of the allies’ arrival, and now she gazed in amazement at his uninjured form. She strode across the tent and hugged him.

“Well, how perfectly sweet. If I could remember how, I’m sure I might weep,” said the Vampire Queen.

Thirrin released him, and holding him at arm’s length she looked him up and down. “How …?”

“The blessing of the Goddess,” Oskan answered and smiled.

“You’re perfect!” she said.

“Yes, isn’t he!” said Her Vampiric Majesty, running her eyes appreciatively over his body.

Only then did Thirrin realize that her friend was naked. He’d run from the cave with neither thought nor time for clothes. Quickly Thirrin unpinned her cloak and draped it over his shoulders. “Cover yourself up. Remember who you are,” she said, and turned to scowl at the Vampire.

“Oh, don’t worry, my dear. He’s a little young for my taste,” she answered and smiled, revealing her fangs.

“Ah, the warlock!” Grishmak bellowed from the table. “Join us! Join us!”

Thirrin led him over to the others, where Tharaman-Thar nuzzled him and purred deeply. “Welcome back to the world of the living, Oskan. All of our lives would have been emptier without you.”

Oskan hugged him, burying his face in his thick fur. “The Goddess obviously didn’t want me yet.”

Thirrin became suddenly brisk, and filled in missing details of the battle. “The enemy is in full retreat. The Holly King and the Oak King are still in pursuit, as are all our other allies under the command of field officers. But Scipio Bellorum seems to have escaped.”

“Our Vampires are flying over the road, but so far there’ve been no sightings,” His Vampiric Majesty said in a voice of tired silk. “And, to be honest, we intend withdrawing our forces soon. We’re all perfectly glutted, aren’t we, dearest?” he said, turning to his coruler and burping discreetly behind gloved fingers.

“Oh, I’m sure I could manage another regiment or two,” she answered. “Some of those southern soldiers have such exotic blood. So spicy.”

Thirrin did her best not to show her revulsion and almost succeeded. “How long will your forces be available to us, Your Majesties?”

“Only for another hour or so, despite the culinary temptations, wouldn’t you say, dear heart?” Her Vampiric Majesty said, turning to the Vampire King for confirmation. “Then we simply must be flying home. These summer nights are so short, and I really couldn’t bear being caught in the sun.”

“And you, Grishmak. How long will your werewolves be staying?” Thirrin asked.

“As long as you need us. It may take months to muster a Wolffolk army, but once it’s gathered, it’s as steady and loyal as any fyrd.”

Thirrin smiled in relief. “You have no idea how good it is to hear you say that, Grishmak. It could take almost a year to get the country back to anything like a defensible position again.”

“All we ask is board and lodgings,” the wolfman growled happily. “Speaking of which, is there any food available? The Vampires may have gorged themselves, but I could eat a horse! I don’t suppose there’s a spare one hereabouts?”

While orderlies were sent off to find food, the commanders and rulers discussed what would follow in the next few days. Throughout the meeting, Thirrin directed operations and sent out orders with all the skill of a veteran, while she discreetly held Oskan’s beautifully regenerated hand under the table.

For the next two days the enemy was pursued toward the south, until they were finally brought to battle at the very mouth of the pass that led to the Polypontian Empire. The werewolf army had taken a route through the hills and woodlands and managed to get ahead of the Empire’s fleeing soldiers, a force that was still dangerously large, and had blocked their final escape route through the mountains so they were forced to stand and fight. Realizing that the soldiers and allies of a country they had ravaged would show no mercy, the Imperial troops asked for none, and had fought with discipline and bravery to the last before finally being overwhelmed by Thirrin and her allies.

Of the entire invasion army only a few thousand soldiers escaped to return home, and they were mainly garrisons left in the southern cities who had immediately fled when they heard of Bellorum’s defeat. The general himself was never captured.

Maggiore Totus put down his pen and removed his spectoculums. He had dotted the final i and crossed the last t of his history. He’d worked with a speed that had surprised even himself, and he was very pleased with the results. Of course, it would be months before it would be read by anyone; after all, the manuscript had to be sent to the Holy Brothers in the Southern Continent, who would copy and illuminate it with decorative letters and pictures. Also, Thirrin wanted at least one History of the War for every city in the land, and one each for all the rulers of the allies, and so the process would take even longer.

Still, his work was done, and he poured himself a large glass of sherry. Then he got up from his desk and moved closer to the fire. The winter was particularly cold that year, and the snows so deep that Thirrin had been forced to permanently assign an entire regiment of housecarls to the job of clearing the city streets. Maggie reached his favorite chair, picked up Primplepuss, who was asleep there, and placed her on his knees as he sat down. She mewed sleepily and settled again as he stroked her.

Outside his door he could hear chamberlains and other servants rushing to and fro as they hurried to prepare for the coming celebrations. “Yule again, Primplepuss. Where does the time go?”

The little cat mewed without opening her eyes.

“And so many great people coming to share it with us. The Basilea and Olememnon, and Tharaman-Thar and Taradan. And we mustn’t forget King Grishmak, even though he’s become something of a permanent fixture recently.”

The delicious scent of baking solstice pie crept into the room, and the old scholar sniffed appreciatively. “Now, I wonder if they’re looking for tasters for the latest batch in the kitchens. Yes … yes. I might just go and volunteer my services.”

He drained his glass of sherry, placed Primplepuss on the chair as he stood up, and went in search of some early Yule treats. Out in the corridor he was immediately caught up in a tidal rush of people carrying baskets and barrels, boxes and bushels of differing foodstuffs. Rightly assuming they must be heading for the kitchens, Maggiore was content to allow himself to be bundled along.

The small party of Thirrin, Oskan, Grimswald, and the bodyguard of white werewolves stood for a moment of silent respect by the side of the newly raised funeral mound that stood on the plain of Frostmarris. It was deeply buried under a layer of frozen snow, and beneath the pristine brilliance of the icy covering, the earth was still bare and grassless. But come the springtime it would be glorious with the tumbled colors of wildflowers, for when King Redrought’s funeral urn had been placed in the central chamber, Thirrin had personally scattered seeds over the loose soil.

The raising of her father’s burial mound had been for Thirrin the final act of the war with the Polypontus. She’d kept her promise and brought Redrought’s ashes home from the Hypolitan, and now he lay at peace with his ancestors, close to the city he had loved.

Grimswald blew his nose loudly on an enormous handkerchief and smiled sadly. It was almost a year ago that the Empire had invaded and Redrought had marched off to destroy the first of their armies. And now that that fateful date had been commemorated, Grimswald felt that his master had finally been laid to rest.

Thirrin looked up at last and gazed around her, scrutinizing every detail of the defensive walls before slowly taking in the broad sweep of the panorama to the eaves of the forest. Beside her, Oskan waited patiently, using the time to adjust Jenny’s ear-warmers and secretly feed her a carrot. Thirrin had been doing a lot of this sort of thing recently. It was as though she couldn’t quite believe the war was over and the land was still free, so she had to reassure herself by looking at things long and hard, just to make sure there were no Polypontian soldiers patrolling the walls, roads, or wherever else she was staring.

“Everything all right?” Oskan asked at last, when she took a little longer than usual.

“Yes, why?” she snapped.

“Oh, no reason. I just wondered if you were looking for anything in particular.”

“No, just … looking.”

“Fine. Shall we …?” Oskan nodded his head toward the forest, their intended destination.

In answer, Thirrin trotted her horse forward, and the escort of cavalry and her bodyguard of white werewolves followed. “Have you got everything?”

“Well, no, I haven’t, but the werewolves have,” Oskan answered, pointing back to her bodyguard, who each carried a barrel or a box of some sort.

“Good. Do you think they’ll answer your summons? It is winter, after all.”

“They don’t hibernate, you know. They’re not bears. If they hear me, I’m sure they’ll come. They always have before.”

Thirrin nodded and rode on in silence. The trees drew slowly nearer until they filled the horizon, their colonies of crows and ravens rising to tumble around the sky like black ash, their harsh calls giving winter a voice.

At last they rode under the eaves of the Great Forest, the ring of the horses’ hooves on the frozen ground echoing through the woodland. “This’ll do,” said Oskan as they entered a small glade where a giant oak tree slept and a holly tree blazed in a glory of polished leaves and fiery berries.

Thirrin signaled to the Wolffolk guards, who then placed the boxes and barrels they carried on the ground in a neat pile, and withdrew to stand with the cavalry troopers nearby. A fanfare was sounded, the brassy notes rebounding through the woodlands until they died away to silence. Oskan dismounted and stood quietly for a moment. His usual collection of black clothing was overlaid by a rich scarlet cloak with a green lining, an early solstice present from Thirrin, who was determined to make his wardrobe a little more colorful.

He blazed like a flame against the snow, then he raised his hands and called into the dark forest: “Greetings to Their Royal Highnesses the Holly King and the Oak King, Rulers of the Wild Wood, Monarchs of the Beasts. Felicitations from Queen Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Wildcat of the North, Monarch of the Icemark.”

His voice died away, and only the sound of a gentle breeze moaning through the naked branches broke the silence. They waited for almost five minutes, and Thirrin was just about to suggest another fanfare when a sudden blast of wind exploded through the trees, sending a great billow of snow over the clearing and causing the branches to thrash and writhe against the gray sky.

The wind suddenly dropped, and when the snow had settled again, a line of twenty soldiers stood facing them. Ten were dressed in armor that was fashioned like polished holly leaves, and ten in oak; both kings had sent a guard to greet their ally.

Thirrin urged her horse forward and looked at them closely. Even after all their help in the war against the Empire, she still found them fascinating. Here before her stood the stuff of legends. These soldiers had marched through her childhood in the form of nursery rhymes and songs, and yet they were real, and had answered her call for help when Scipio Bellorum had invaded. She shook herself, brought her thoughts back to the present and addressed the soldiers of the Great Forest.

“Take my heartfelt thanks and greetings to your rulers and my fellow monarchs, the Holly King and the Oak King. Convey to them my continuing friendship, and ask them to share in our celebration of the winter solstice with these gifts of wine, mead, and beer. Take also this box,” she continued, pointing to a slender polished container. “It contains the sword of General Scipio Bellorum of the Polypontian Empire, taken by me along with his hand in single combat. Receive it in acknowledgment of your monarchs’ help in the war of freedom just lately won. Our victory could not have been secured without the people and the animals of the wild wood.

“Know also that no living creature will be hunted by the humans of this land while they remain within the borders of the forest, and no wood or any other material will be taken without the paying of due thanks.”

Thirrin fell silent, and the gentle breeze rustled through the branches of the trees. Then one holly and one oak soldier stepped forward from the ranks, and saluting her, took Bellorum’s sword. Other soldiers came forward and took up the barrels, and when they stepped back in line, the huge blast of wind boomed through the forest again and they were gone.

“Well, that went quite well, I think,” said Oskan, brushing the powdered snow off his new cloak. “Shall we go back now? I’m getting quite hungry.”

Thirrin glared at him. There were times when she was certain he made light of every occasion just to annoy her. But she controlled herself and nodded curtly.

By the time they were out on the plain again her mood had softened and she smiled. “I love Yuletide! I can’t wait for solstice morning, with all its singing and good things to eat. Tharaman will have arrived with Taradan, and he’ll have all sorts of tales about the Ice Troll Wars. And of course there’ll be presents; I particularly love the presents. What will you give me this year? It had better be good.”

“What could I give that you don’t already have?” Oskan asked. “It’s an impossible task. So I admitted defeat and got you a loaf of bread. It’s a cleverly symbolic gift, as bread represents life, and you’re nothing if not lively.”

“Why, Oskan, how sweet,” she teased in return. “Does that mean you’ll be with me for life?”

But the warlock had fallen silent, and his eyes stared into the middle distance as though he could see things beyond human sight. Thirrin knew the signs and held her breath. He was about to prophesy.

“Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Wildcat of the North, Taker of the Hand of Bellorum …” His voice was strangely hollow and his breath rattled in his throat. “You ask the Old Ones about your servant Oskan the Warlock. Will he be with you for life?”

“Yes, yes!” Thirrin urged breathlessly.

“The Old Ones answer you thus … You’ll just have to bloody well wait and see,” he said, and grinned so wickedly that she cuffed him around the head.

But then a howling sounded on the frozen air and they all stopped to listen. The werewolf escort answered in a tumble of voices and then trotted on.

“Well?” Thirrin demanded.

“Tharaman-Thar and his escort have just crossed the northern border. They’ll be here tomorrow night,” Oskan explained.

She nodded and smiled contentedly. This was going to be a wonderful Yule. “Do you know what?”

“What?”

“The last one back has a face like Jenny’s arse,” she said, and galloped away toward Frostmarris with Oskan, werewolves, and cavalry escort following in wild pursuit.



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to acknowledge the support and help of my work colleagues: Lesley, Jackie, Jon (big and small), Amy, Matt, The Stoat, Sonia, Mariam, Monica, Dipesh, Andrea, Andrew, Steve, and all of the Saturday and Sunday plebs. Also to Trace (the manager and bazooka specialist), as well as Louse, second-in-command and collector of hoofcoverings.

Family and friends who are as excited as I am can’t be left out, either, and Nigel must get a mention for many years of past listening without getting too impatient!

I must also thank The Chicken House for being brave enough to publish my books. Particular thanks to Barry, Imogen, Rachel, and Esther, but also to those nice people who pick up the phone and say “Is that Stuart?” before I even have a chance to get beyond the opening remarks. It must be the accent or the neurotic way I gabble!

Finally, my heartfelt thanks go to Margaret York, writer, teacher, actress, and complete inspiration; when reading King Solomon’s Mines, you gave a voice to Gagool I’ve never forgotten — I’m sure Rider Haggard would have approved!