The Cry of the Icemark

7



Oskan had been dreading having to sleep in the Great Hall along with all the other less important guests who would fill the castle for Yule. He was used to the privacy of his cave, and the thought of sharing his space with any number of total strangers was daunting. But he needn’t have worried; he had been given his own room. Admittedly it was small, with just enough space for the narrow bed, a chest for the few things he’d brought with him, and a stool to lay his clothes on, but it was a private room and a huge privilege. He knew for certain that there were some quite wealthy merchants curled up around the central hearth of the Great Hall, vying for space with the wolfhounds and trying to guard their property from their fellow guests. He almost felt guilty that an orphaned peasant boy like himself should be given his own room — almost, but not quite.

He stretched comfortably under the warm covers and savored the peace and quiet. Only an hour before, he’d been in the King’s private chamber with Thirrin, and Redrought’s huge voice had filled everything to capacity, including Oskan’s head.

As soon as they’d arrived in the castle courtyard, the Princess had leaped from her horse and waited impatiently while Oskan had climbed carefully down from the saddle. Then she’d led him through the massive double doors that stood before them into the Great Hall. Neither Thirrin nor her escort of soldiers seemed to care in the least that they walked over several guests who’d settled down for Yuletide Eve around the central fire. Oskan had whispered hurried apologies to several outraged figures who had sat up spluttering into the red glow of the fire-lit hall. Things hadn’t been helped, either, when most of the wolfhounds, seeing Thirrin and the soldiers, had decided it was morning and time for their run, so they had started to bark excitedly and jump around over the rest of the sleeping guests. By the time they’d reached the massive oak throne on the dais and dodged behind it to enter the King’s chambers, the Great Hall was in an uproar with dogs baying, sentries shouting challenges, and woken guests demanding to know what was going on.

Thirrin had thumped once on the low door to her father’s private apartments and burst in. A sentry just inside the room had leveled his spear and shouted a startled demand to know their business, and a small collection of white hair and wrinkles in a red nightshirt had hopped out of a low cot with a squeak. “Who is it, Bergeld? See them off! Call out the guard!”

“It’s the Princess, sir,” the sentry had replied, lowering shield and spear.

“The Princess? At this hour?” Grimswald the chamberlain had then rubbed his eyes and gazed at the party of Thirrin, Oskan, and the soldiers. “Not only the Princess, it seems. You can dismiss your men, Ma’am.”

Thirrin raised her hand, and her escort saluted and marched away. Oskan, in the comfort of his bed, remembered how much larger the room had suddenly seemed after the ten heavily armed soldiers had gone. Grimswald had then cleared his throat with deliberate dignity and asked precisely what they wanted.

“I have urgent news for my father,” Thirrin had replied, with a slight but powerful emphasis on the word my.

“Well, since you’ve woken him up, you might as well tell him what you very well want!” a huge voice had boomed into the room and was soon followed by an enormous white nightshirt that made its way irritably through a door from an inner chamber. Oskan’s jaw had literally dropped open before the massive figure of the King. His billowing nightshirt and swirling red hair and beard made him look like a snow-covered volcano in mid-eruption, and the rumbling that could be heard deep in the barrel chest suggested that further fireworks were likely.

“Father, we heard a wolfwoman in the forest….”

“Is that all? Well, hunt her tomorrow! Is that the only reason you woke me?” The King had been outraged, and his face had gone almost as red as his flaming hair.

“No,” Thirrin had said hurriedly. “Oskan understands their language, and it seems she was part of a relay of messages back to The-Land-of-the-Ghosts.”

By this time the King had marched over to the chair he used during the day and was pummeling the cushions to his liking. He stopped and looked up, his eyes narrowing with interest.

“What did she say?” he’d asked.

“She was calling a gathering! A gathering of the Wolffolk …”

“Odin!” Redrought had boomed in amazement. “What else?”

Thirrin had paused, unconsciously raising the tension. “She said that she didn’t think they’d be in time to fulfill their oath to the Princess.”

The King had leaped to his feet and turned to Oskan. “Do you know which direction this message came from?”

For a moment Oskan had quailed under Redrought’s fierce gaze, but then he’d answered. “She was calling to others in a relay to the north, so it must have come from the south.”

“The Polypontus, then,” the King said, and then astonished Oskan by smiling. “It looks like we’re going to meet General Scipio Bellorum at last, eh, Thirrin?”

“Yes, Dad. At last.” And she’d smiled, too.

In the warmth of his bed afterward, it all seemed unreal to Oskan. With an amazing speed, the King had sent out messages to all points of the compass calling out the fyrd and ordering the regiments of royal housecarls to march south immediately. Redrought, though, seemed to be planning to follow the day after Yule with the cavalry. Obviously he didn’t think the invasion was imminent and was coolly determined to enjoy the Yuletide Feast before going anywhere.

“Do you think the Lady Theowin will know what’s going on?” Thirrin had then asked.

“Certain to,” Redrought had answered. “Her scouts keep a close eye on the border every day of the year. She and her housecarls will keep any invading force busy until we get there. But judging by what your new allies the Wolffolk were saying, the invasion hasn’t happened yet; they were just worried they wouldn’t be ready in time to help.”

Thirrin had glowed with pleasure. Her insistence on an alliance with at least some of the creatures from The-Land-of the-Ghosts was already paying off. But then Redrought had begun to doubt the reports of the emergency.

“You are fluent in wolf speech, aren’t you?” he’d boomed at Oskan.

“Oh yes, sir,” Oskan had answered confidently. “My mother taught me before I could even read or write.”

“You can read!” Redrought had bellowed in surprise. Picking up his precious Book of the Ancestors that still lay next to his chair, he opened it at random and told Oskan to read where his finger pointed. Oskan had done so, and when Redrought had looked inquiringly at Grimswald and the old chamberlain had nodded, he’d grunted in satisfaction and smiled.

“You have a learned adviser, Daughter! Use him well.” Both Oskan and Thirrin had blushed at that, and the King laughed hugely.

“Now, Grimswald, bring my cloak and boots! We’re going to the lookout tower to see if Thirrin’s allies are saying anything else about General Scipio Bellorum.”

Oskan shivered in his bed as he remembered the icy cold of the winds blowing about the high tower that reared above the battlements of Frostmarris. The city lay below them, tiny and hard-looking under the moonlight, like an exquisite toy carved out of crystal. He’d stared in fascination at the tangled pattern of streets and alleyways that tied a knot of connections between the four main gates of the city, but then he’d tensed as the thin wailing of the Wolffolk slipped through the cold night air like a blade.

The voice was torn to tatters by the wind, and Oskan had to wait for the cycle of howling to begin again before he had it all.

“Well?” the King had boomed through a storm cloud of steaming breath. “What are they saying?”

“It’s a reply from the north,” Oskan had answered. “The muster has begun, but they expect it to take months to gather all their warriors together. They say the invasion will happen before that, perhaps in less than a week, but they’ll be ready to help the Princess … if she still lives.”

“Hmm, optimistic bunch,” Redrought had said in a tone that was quiet for him.

“There’s something else,” Oskan had then said. “The Wolffolk say they could have warned the Princess directly, but they didn’t think they could have reached Frostmarris without being killed by the city guards before they’d even seen her.”

“Good point,” the King admitted. “Still, we know now, thanks to you, Oskan. The fyrd has been called out over the whole country. My professional housecarls will set off within the hour and begin a forced march south, and I’ll lead out the cavalry the day after Yule. We should overtake the housecarls by the following day and arrive together in the Southern Riding the day after that.”

“Five days,” Thirrin had said quietly. “And the Wolffolk expect the invasion within a week.”

“Well, I don’t expect it before the week’s up,” Redrought had said confidently. “I’ve heard nothing from Lady Theowin yet, and her scouts will certainly have noticed any buildup of troops below the southern border. So it can only just have started to happen. It’s no easy matter maneuvering an army the size of old Scipio Bellorum’s, you know. I don’t expect anything to happen for a good eight or nine days yet.”

“But you yourself have said that Bellorum has won most of his wars by the sheer size of his armies, iron discipline, and by doing the unexpected,” Thirrin had pointed out.

“That’s right. But he doesn’t know we’re ready for him, does he?”

Oskan snuggled down under the blankets and continued to mull over the meeting with Thirrin and her father. There was no denying that both were deeply worried by the threat of invasion, but there was something that overrode even that: They were both looking forward to it! Oskan was sure that neither could wait to get out onto the field of battle and test themselves against the mighty army of the Polypontus and most of all against the legendary skill and daring of the great General Scipio Bellorum. Oskan was appalled. The threat of war filled him with an honest terror. When he’d told Thirrin about the omen of the late snows, it had all seemed somehow remote and unconnected with his own reality. But now that the Wolffolk were mustering and the King had called out the fyrd, it all seemed horribly real. In his imagination’s terrified ear, he could almost hear the heavy tread of the Empire’s army as it advanced on the little land. But nobody else in the royal household seemed particularly worried; Oskan knew that everyone from the loftiest baron to the lowliest scullion would know every detail by now. And yet he could clearly hear the first stirrings of the castle as the household prepared for Yule Day, as though war and its threat of death and chaos weren’t hanging over them all.

But perhaps they were just hiding their true feelings and getting on with life as best they could. After all, when he went over the facts himself, he had to admit there was nothing he could actually do about it. The housecarls had set out and the fyrd had been raised, and no amount of his worrying would alter a thing. Perhaps this relaxed attitude to horrific situations was infectious, he thought, as at last he settled down and drifted off to sleep.

Outside, the Wolffolk continued to howl, their messages taking on a note of urgency that anyone could have recognized if they’d been listening, but Oskan slept on warm and, for the moment, safe in his bed. The moon set in a glory of silver, and slowly the solstice dawn lightened the eastern sky. The castle bustled with Yuletide preparations that filled every corridor and hall with delicious smells and an excited hum of activity. But still Oskan slept on, until at last he was awoken several hours later by a hammering on his door and a heavily armored palace guard bursting into the room.

“Princess Thirrin commands your presence in the Great Hall! She says if you look too sleepy I’m to tip you out of bed and drag you along as you are!” The soldier looked at him sharply, and Oskan sat up, his eyes wide open.

“I’m awake! It’ll only take me a moment to dress!”

The guard nodded curtly and disappeared. Oskan clambered out of bed and started to throw on his clothes. It was while he was struggling to pull his shirt over his head that the sweet sound of singing slowly reached him through the cloth and filled him with an excited sense of the day. It was Yule! The death of the old year and the birth of the new.

It was a day he’d always loved, and he sat on the bed for a moment as he remembered decorating the cave with his mother. She’d always known exactly where to find the glossiest holly with the brightest berries. And she’d always taken him with her when she’d set off into the forest in search of mistletoe. Once, they’d found a grove of twisted old crab apple trees that were bent almost double under the weight of the strange pale-leafed plant growing on them. But even so, she’d still bowed gravely to the trees and asked permission before cutting a bunch of the mistletoe with a strangely marked sickle.

He could still remember the cave, spicy with the scent of evergreen foliage and the smell of delicious roasting and baking. In fact, Yule was one of the few occasions when his mother would hint at who his father might have been. He knew better than to pester her about it, but he’d stored away the nuggets of information to think about later.

“It was this time of year when I first saw him,” she’d said one day while gathering holly. “Tall, he was, and as slender and pale as a silver birch.”

“But who was he, Mother? What was his name?”

She’d smiled mysteriously then and said, “His sort never tell their names. Whoever knows their names has power over them, so only the closest of their own kind have such knowledge.”

“Then can’t you at least tell me who his kind were?”

“Oh, they’re the oldest ones. The Elders of all thinking beings. Can’t you guess? Haven’t I given you enough clues?”

Oskan thought perhaps she had. “Was he powerful? Was he good?”

“All of that sort have Power. And as for good, well, who knows? They choose between light and dark, that sort — it’s a choice they all have to make. A choice you’ll have to make one day, too.”

So vivid were his memories that he could almost feel the breeze that had been blowing through the forest that day stroking his skin again, and with it came the smell of the pies and pastries that his mother had baked for Yule. But then he came to and realized the aroma was coming from the palace kitchens, and that reminded him he was expected by Thirrin for Yule breakfast.

He finished dressing and hurried out into the corridor, which seemed almost as busy as a road on market day. Servants hurried to and fro carrying trays and baskets of food, and richly dressed guests walked with as much speed as dignity would allow. Oskan had been shown to his room by a guard in the dead of night when almost on the point of collapsing with exhaustion, so exactly where he was in the palace was a mystery. But he noticed all of the guests were heading in the same direction and, guessing the corridor led to the Great Hall, he hastened to follow them.

When he reached the end of the passageway, he almost fell into the massive space that old men still called the Mead Hall. The noise, color, and scents were overpowering as musicians played and choristers sang; brightly dressed courtiers and servants rushed about, and excited wolfhounds barked and chased one another around the tables that were already filling up with guests. At the head of the hall, Redrought sat on his huge throne dressed in a rich deep green robe that exactly matched the boughs of holly that hung from the rafters and lined the walls. He wore the ancient iron crown of the House of Lindenshield, and as King he was the only one allowed to wear a sword under that massive roof. Even the palace guards carried only spears and clubs.

Redrought sat in dignified silence as the servants bustled around. But after watching them for a moment he threw dignity aside and started a bellowed conversation with one of the merchants who sat at the top end of one of the long rows of tables. Judging from the way the King kept stroking his robe and holding his sleeve up to the light so that he could admire the color, Oskan guessed that the merchant was a member of the Cloth and Weavers Guild and that Redrought was more than pleased with his Yuletide robe.

The High Table was set at right angles to row upon row of long trestle tables that completely filled the Great Hall. And as Oskan stood and watched, they were filling up quickly as guests arrived and found a good place as close to the dais and the King as possible. There was a definite order of precedence, with the richer merchants near the top end, the less wealthy in the center, and the peasantry who’d been lucky enough to be invited crammed down at the lower end near the great doors. The nobility sat with the King at the top table and noting this, Oskan scanned it, looking for Thirrin. She wasn’t there, but he noticed a smaller throne standing next to Redrought’s that not even the most important of the barons or baronesses had tried to sit in.

She hadn’t arrived yet, then. So much for threatening to have him dragged out of bed if he didn’t hurry, Oskan thought. And he was just turning to make his way down to the bottom end of one of the tables when a huge brassy fanfare blew and the hall fell silent. Into the sudden quiet strode the slender figure of Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield. She was wearing a simple dress of sky blue and on her head a circlet of silver set with a huge sapphire. Oskan stared; he’d never seen her in anything other than battle dress before. Even her hair, usually braided and tucked up under a helmet, now hung loose in a glorious blaze of red-gold, and her eyes shone with excitement as she looked out over the hall. As it was her fourteenth birthday, she was, in effect, the guest of honor and so had precedence over even the King.

Thirrin would have been surprised if she’d known what Oskan and many other people were thinking. Beautiful was a word used for grown women, for her mother and one or two of the young noblewomen who sometimes came to court. She was just Thirrin, fourteen years old today and tired after a bad night’s sleep. She thought she’d been restless because of the coming war but didn’t really believe it. Far more likely was that it had been Yuletide Eve and the night before her birthday, when she’d be officially presented to the court and proclaimed heir.

She’d eventually fallen asleep only to be troubled by strange dreams. In one, she’d been riding her stallion in full war armor and beside her ran a truly enormous cat, a leopard, she thought. But it was unlike any leopard she’d ever seen in the books of her tutor, Maggiore Totus. Its coat was mainly a brilliant white with spots that ranged from silver-gray to the deepest black. But the strangest of all was the fact that she wasn’t hunting it or it hunting her. In the dream she felt an enormous affection for the animal, and she felt proud to be with it and almost humble — a feeling, Thirrin reminded herself, that she didn’t often feel! Maggiore Totus would tell her that it was a classic anxiety dream, but she hadn’t felt in the least bit anxious, only proud and happy.

She looked now to see if Maggiore was at the top end of one of the tables, skillfully denying to herself that she was actually looking for Oskan. The Yuletide bustle and noise had reasserted itself, and people began milling around again as they jockeyed for space as close to the High Table as they could get. So when Thirrin eventually spotted the witch’s son, she was surprised to see him standing directly in front of her, his mouth hanging open in a slightly imbecilic way.

The sight of him annoyed her, and not only because of his sagging mouth. In the chaos that had followed the news of war, she’d forgotten to send the new robes she’d bought him for Yule, and he was still wearing the threadbare tunic and leggings he always wore.

Not deigning to call directly down to him, she beckoned to a chamberlain and spoke quietly into his ear. Oskan watched as the man then walked from her side, stepped down off the dais where Thirrin sat at the High Table, and hurried over to him.

“Her Royal Highness suggests you close your mouth before one of the wolfhounds does something unspeakable in it.” Oskan’s jaw snapped shut with a loud click. “She also wishes you to take a place at the head of the central table.”

Oskan had been heading for the section reserved for the peasantry near the great doors, but now he shyly made for the table the head of which was directly opposite Thirrin’s throne. The fat merchant who already sat there looked at Oskan’s worn tunic and was about to loudly tell him exactly where he should go, when the chamberlain whispered something in his ear and nodded at the High Table. Thirrin’s coldest gaze was already leveled at the merchant, and he quickly shuffled farther down the bench without another word.

Opposite Oskan sat a small dark man who wore small pieces of glass set in a frame in front of each eye. Oskan was fascinated by this contraption and stared in amazement. The small man returned his gaze, and Oskan noticed that his eyes looked enormous behind the glass.

“Oh, of course! They make things larger, like a bead of dew will magnify the blade of grass it hangs on.”

“Exactly right, young man! These are my spectoculums, especially designed by myself, to correct my myopia, or ‘dim sight,’ as you may say.” He stood and extended a small and very clean hand. “May I introduce myself? I am Maggiore Totus, tutor to the Princess Thirrin.”

Oskan shook his hand gravely. “I am Oskan, known as the Witch’s Son … er, Thirrin’s friend, or should I say friend of Princess Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the —”

“‘Thirrin’s friend’ will do nicely,” Maggiore interrupted gently. “Very nicely indeed. And may I say that I’m enormously pleased that she’s made the acquaintance of such an intelligent young man. Nobody else has ever rightly guessed the nature of my spectoculums before. I’m very impressed.”

Oskan felt himself growing warm with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment, but despite this he couldn’t help noticing the small man’s rich accent. “You’re not from the Icemark, are you? Your name makes that pretty obvious, but your voice, too … it sings.”

Maggiore smiled. “No, I’m from the northern shores of the Southern Continent, where the sun is enormously generous and ice is only ever found in cooling drinks. And soon I’ll be going home, now that the Princess is reaching the limit of her patience with schooling.” His voice had become wistful, and his spectoculummed eyes stared into a distance of imagined olive groves and small mountain villages honeyed with sun and quiet in their gentle dust. “At least I hope to be going home soon, but this rumor of war may mean the ports will be closed and the seas unsafe to travel. We shall have to see.”

Thirrin watched Oskan and Maggiore chatting together with approval. There was something very similar about their natures. Both seemed fascinated by the world around them, and both knew so much. She was sure they’d find plenty to talk about. And now, safe in the knowledge that her two favorite guests were entertaining each other, she could concentrate on the High Table and the talk of the coming war. But before she could say anything, a fanfare rang out and the sweet singing of Yule filled the hall.

The hubbub died down, and all eyes turned to watch as the great doors opened and a choir of boys and women paced slowly into the hall. Behind them walked dozens and dozens of servants carrying platters and other containers of every imaginable sort of food, and at the head of the procession walked Grimswald, the chief chamberlain, carrying a huge round loaf of bread. Thirrin couldn’t help noticing the lack of the housecarls’ bass notes that would usually have been part of the choir. Almost as though Redrought had read her thoughts, he suddenly leaped to his feet and added his own hugely deep voice to the singing. Down the center of the hall walked the procession, skirting the massive central hearth where the Yule log would burn, and traveling slowly up to the dais where the King waited. For a moment or two longer the sweet ancient song threaded into the quiet, slowly wafting up to the rafters and echoing back from the roof, so that the singers seemed to be accompanying themselves in a tumbled choral round. Then at last it died away like a gentle sigh, the King drew his sword, and as Grimswald held up the round loaf of bread, Redrought cut it in two.

A roar rose up from the hall, and the servants scattered to all points of the room and started serving the food. More and more scullions poured through the doors carrying yet more delicious food, and the long minstrels’ gallery that jutted out above the great doors was suddenly full of musicians playing a tumbling dance tune.

Thirrin waited patiently for the noble guests at the head table to finish the first course of their Yuletide breakfast, then, as the scullions cleared away the debris, she asked, “What’s the news on the calling of the fyrd? Has all gone smoothly?”

“Not a hitch or problem anywhere,” Redrought answered, his powerful voice easily rising above the noise in the hall. “I’m more than pleased. Yule’s a bad time to call out the fyrd, people want to be with their families, but everything’s in order and working as it should.”

Thirrin sat back and listened intently as each of the lords and ladies at the table added detail to this, but overall the reports were the same. All was going well. She already knew the disposition and strengths of each regiment likely to engage the enemy, so when Redrought started to fill in details for those with less knowledge, she sat back and let her eyes wander over the hall.

Already the tumblers and acrobats were leaping skillfully around the tables in a dazzle of sequins. One had even managed to leap from the shoulders of his partner and reach one of the dozen or so crossbeams that stretched across the width of the hall. He sat there now, calling down to the crowds below and deftly catching the small morsels of food they threw up to him.

Thirrin smiled. She loved this early part of Yule Day. Everyone was still boisterous and full of energy, but by mid-afternoon most would be sleeping in snoring heaps or holding deeply earnest conversations with people they’d probably just met. Her eyes wandered on, and came to rest on Oskan and Maggiore Totus. They already seemed to have reached that stage. They were bent over the table between them, their heads close together as they talked. She watched them, trying to make out what they were discussing, but it was impossible. Probably the life expectancy of the earthworm, she thought dismissively. But she continued to watch them for several minutes, trying to ignore a growing desire to leave the High Table and join them. She felt inexplicably annoyed with Oskan, and after trying to find a reason for her irritation, she decided it was because he hadn’t looked her way once in all the time she’d been watching him. Being far too dignified to throw a bread roll at him, she beckoned over a servant, then sent him off to Oskan’s table.

“Her Royal Highness requires that you remember her presence,” he announced as he reached the two conversationalists. Oskan looked up in surprise. They’d been discussing the wildlife of the forest, and he’d become so absorbed he’d almost forgotten where he was.

“Um … tell the Princess we wouldn’t dare forget her.”

The servant was just bowing stiffly when Maggiore laid his hand gently on his arm. “No. Tell Her Royal Highness that she has never been out of our thoughts, and we remain deeply grateful that she should remember us.”

The servant withdrew and delivered his message, and Thirrin looked on them coldly. She was actually as happy and relaxed as she could be, considering the pending invasion, but she wasn’t going to let Oskan know that. And as for Maggiore Totus, she had no doubt that he was watching them both and laughing. The fact that the laughter was friendly and affectionate made little difference to her; she still found it annoying.

After that, both Oskan and Maggiore remembered to look up to the High Table and toast Thirrin on a regular basis, but her face remained an unsmiling mask.

By mid-morning the celebrations had reached their noisy height, and a great cheer arose when the double doors burst open and soldiers of the palace guard dragged the enormous Yule log into the hall. It took several minutes to pull it across the flagstones while the guests sang a noisy song of welcome and musicians escorted it to the waiting hearth. Lesser logs were already blazing there, and these would cradle the Yule log above the deep mound of glowing coals that lined the pit of the central hearth.

Ten strong men of the palace guard then heaved the log onto stout iron bars and slowly lowered it onto the waiting flames. For a moment silence descended on the hall, then a single voice sang praise to the Sun that would begin its long return journey after this, the shortest day of the year. As the last note died away, tankards, goblets, and leather jacks were raised in salutation and drained in one movement, and a huge cheer rose to the rafters.

The Imperial army swaggered along the narrow road through the pass, the stamp and thump of each disciplined step telling the world that conquest was coming and nothing could stop it. In less than an hour the road began to widen, and the soldiers caught their first glimpse of the land they were about to add to the Empire.

Baroness Theowin of the Icemark’s Southern Riding watched as the Polypontian commander stepped over the border. She was surprised to see that he didn’t match any of the descriptions she’d had of Scipio Bellorum, but soon dismissed the puzzle as she prepared to take action. The Baroness had barely had time to call out the fyrd and send word to Frostmarris, but help would still be days away and she had an Empire to fight all alone. She watched the Imperial army swaggering along as though they’d already won their war and put all other thoughts aside.

Commander Lucius Tarquinus of the Polypontian Imperial forces raised his hand, and the army stamped to a halt. The fife-and-drum units that had been filling the freezing air with stirring martial music fell silent, and an expectant hush settled over the soldiers.

Tarquinus now urged his horse on a few steps and then, standing in his stirrups, he called, “Veni, vidi, vici!” —the traditional phrase declaimed at the start of each of the Empire’s many invasions.

Theowin smiled grimly. “ ‘I came, I saw, I conquered,’ eh?” she said, translating the words to herself. “Well, you’ve certainly come, and undoubtedly you’re seeing, but conquest is an entirely different matter.” She raised her hand and chopped it down viciously.

Arrows rained down on the Polypontian army. Several staff officers who were riding with the commander fell to the ground and lay unmoving as their horses bolted. For a moment chaos reigned, but then the rigid discipline of the Imperial troops reasserted itself and they fell back in good order, their shields raised above their heads as they withdrew. Commander Tarquinus trotted his horse gently back to his army, almost as though he were out for a pleasant ride, and immediately took control.

He’d noted the approximate position of the enemy hidden behind an outcrop of rocks, and sent out a detachment of heavy infantry who formed a testudo, or tortoise — shields were locked to form a roof and walls all around the unit, protecting the soldiers inside.

Baroness Theowin immediately gave orders for the archers to withdraw, and they melted away into the hills. Then, with a nod at her cavalry, she led them in a smashing charge, screeching and howling the Icemark war cry as they roared down on the infantry.

Horse and rider smashed into the shields, and a rending clang like an unholy bell echoed over the land. For a vicious few moments cavalry saber and infantry sword hacked and stabbed at one another, but then, just as Tarquinus was sending out reinforcements, the Baroness and her troopers withdrew, streaming over the frozen ground to disappear among the gullies and canyons of the borderland.

After another two hours or so, the midday meal was brought in. This was only made obvious by the fact that there was even more food on the tables, and the guests turned to the task of eating with huge sighs and shaking heads. But somehow they managed, after which some of the less able began to slip into quiet sleep amid the uproar of singing, shouting, and laughter.

Thirrin had been discussing the relevant advantages and disadvantages of the longbow over the matchlock musket with the Baron of the Middle Riding when she noticed that Oskan had stood up and was looking toward the back of the Great Hall. She followed his gaze and watched as the massive doors swung open and a warning shout rang out. Silence as complete and deadly as the midwinter chill fell on the hall, and all eyes watched as ten men of the Palace Guard marched forward dragging a werewolf between them.

Its arms had been tied to the shaft of a spear that ran across its shoulders, and a thick chain hobbled its legs, forcing it to shuffle along with ridiculous mincing steps. But the guards kept their distance, pressing their spears so hard into its flesh that Thirrin could see blood trickling over its thick black pelt. Enraged, she leaped to her feet, and before the strange party had reached the dais where she sat, her angry voice cut into the silence.

“Set him free!” The guards stopped and looked at her in amazement. “Set my ally free now, and let him approach the High Table.”

The Princess seemed almost to blaze as her red hair stood out about her head in a halo of wrath, and the guards hurried to release the werewolf. A sigh went up as the chains fell away and its hands were released from the spear shaft. It stood rubbing its wrists for a moment, then strode toward the dais. The guards immediately snatched up their spears and formed a shield-wall in front of the High Table.

“Put down your spears and stand aside!” Thirrin snapped. The commander of the guard looked at Redrought, who nodded in silence, then as the soldiers parted slowly, the werewolf stepped up to the table and dropped to one knee. The intense silence that had descended on the hall again was broken only by a whimpering and snuffling sound as the creature contorted its face in an effort to use human speech. Then at last a sudden explosion of sound burst out of its mouth.

“Hail, Princess Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, heir to the human kingdom of the Icemark. Greetings from My Lord, King Grishmak of the Wolffolk.” The great belch of gruff sound echoed from the stone walls of the hall, and Thirrin nodded in reply.

“Greetings to my ally King Grishmak. What news does his envoy have for us?”

“My Lady, your land is invaded! The Wolffolk are mustering, but we fear we’ll be too late.” The wolfman had gained some control over his voice and the volume was a little lower, but still it echoed over the otherwise silent hall. “Already the armies of the Polypontus have marched through the mountain pass in the south, and your people are fighting to stop them.”

“They’ve invaded already?” Redrought boomed. “When? What time? How many?”

“At dawn this morning, and their numbers are more than ten times the army of your people that stand against them.”

“Ten times!” Redrought bellowed. “I need precise numbers, details, types of weaponry. But I don’t suppose you people can count.”

The creature drew itself up to its full height and looked Redrought in the eye. “Nothing escapes my people if they want to see it. I know now my news is not entirely unexpected. You must have known war was coming even if you don’t know how many fighters they have. But my people can count, so I can tell you the Polypontians have twenty thousand horse soldiers, thirty thousand that carry sticks that kill with noise, and fifty thousand soldiers with long spears. And they also have with them metal tubes on wheels, like the sticks that kill with noise but bigger.”

“Cannons!” said Thirrin. “How many?”

“Two hundred.”

“One hundred thousand troops and two hundred cannons!” Redrought gasped. “The Lady Theowin and her housecarls will never hold them.” He suddenly stood up and called the names of his commanders, and figures began hurrying from all points of the hall. “Cerdic, Gunlath, Eobold, Aethelstan. Call in your cavalry and send out riders to the outlying towns. The muster is brought forward. We ride in two hours!”

“But, My Lord!” Commander Aethelstan protested. “How can we be certain this isn’t some trick of the Vampire King and Queen? How can we be sure they’re not drawing our best troops to the south so they can attack from the north?”

“Because King Grishmak is my ally!” Thirrin cried. “And because Oskan Witch’s Son heard and translated the messages of the Wolffolk last night. They couldn’t have known we would understand their howling.”

“So that’s how you knew,” said the werewolf. “Where is this human who knows our tongue?”

“The son of a witch could easily be an ally of The-Land-of-the-Ghosts. How do we know he’s not part of a conspiracy?” Aethelstan persisted.

Thirrin’s blue eyes blazed with a hating rage, but before she could speak, a huge shout from the rear of the hall drew all eyes to a travel-stained soldier being escorted to the dais by two Palace Guards. He stopped in front of the King, saluted, and laid an arrow on the table.

“My Lord, I’m from the Southern Riding, sent with the Arrow of Calling by the Lady Theowin. The Polypontus has invaded, and our housecarls are heavily outnumbered.”

Redrought gave a bark of laughter. “There, I think, is your answer, Aethelstan. All fears are brushed aside. Now waste no more time, and muster your troops!”

“But what of the numbers of this invading army, My Lord? One hundred thousand must be wrong. How can we expect creatures like this to count accurately?” Aethelstan asked stubbornly.

The King’s color deepened and his voice rumbled dangerously as he spoke. “I assume you’ll accept the report of this soldier?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to the messenger. “Well?”

“My Lord, the army of the Polypontus is huge. They have fifty thousand pikemen, thirty thousand musketeers, and twenty thousand cavalry troopers. In addition, they have two hundred cannons. The fyrd and housecarls of the Southern Riding are outnumbered ten to one.”

Redrought turned a bloodshot eye on Aethelstan. “I think, Commander, that answers every single one of your doubts. Somehow I think the armies of the Polypontus are the least of your worries. You’ve earned the disapproval of the Princess Thirrin. You’d better make yourself scarce and muster your force!”

The King now drew his sword and clambered onto the table. “Foes are in the land of the Icemark!” he roared in his loudest war voice. “They kill our people and threaten our cities, they burn our farms and make slaves of our children. Blood! Blast! And Fire!”

The Palace Guard began to beat spear on shield, and a slow chant began in a relentless rhythm that swelled and grew to a crashing noise that beat against the roof of the hall. “OUT! Out! Out! OUT! Out! Out! OUT! Out! Out!”

Everyone in the Great Hall took it up, beating the tables with fist, plate, and knife and stamping the floor so that it sounded as though a great army of giants was marching out to crush the puny soldiers of the Polypontus. “OUT! Out! Out! OUT! Out! Out! OUT! Out! Out!”

And in all that enormous excitement of fighting spirit, only Oskan noticed that the terrible warlike figure of Redrought Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Bear of the North, Drinker of Blood, was still wearing his fluffy slippers and that Primplepuss the kitten was peeping out of his shirt collar to see what all the noise was about.