The Cry of the Icemark

8



Thirrin was bitterly disappointed. Her Yule present from Redrought, a new cavalry saddle, lay where she’d dumped it in the corner of her room, and she’d managed to put a dent in her shield-boss when she’d smashed it in a temper against the wall. The King was going to war without her! She was fuming. At first she’d thought it the worst possible humiliation, but after the first moments of rage and disappointment had passed, she’d had time to think, and slowly her attitude had changed. Redrought might not be taking her to fight the great army of the Polypontus, but before the entire assembly of the royal household he’d proclaimed her his Regent and given her the Great Ring of State. The Power of Rule was now hers in the King’s absence, and not only that but he’d given her a battle name. She was now officially to be known as Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Wildcat of the North.

Wildcat of the North — she liked it. She liked it very much. She looked at herself in the mirror that had been imported from the Southern Continent and smiled. But she didn’t have long to enjoy the moment. There were things to do. The King would be riding with his cavalry in less than an hour and the city had to be evacuated.

A hasty council of war had decided that since the roads were clear of snow, any victorious enemy would be able to sweep north into Frostmarris and capture it and its citizens before any defense could be mustered by the small garrison that would be left behind. Far better for the people of Frostmarris to retreat to the north and seek refuge in the province held by the Hypolitan. This was a separate people of fierce warriors who also lived within the borders of the Icemark and owed fealty to the King. Thirrin’s mother had been a member of their aristocracy and her marriage to King Redrought had strengthened the already close bonds between the two races.

From their province a counterattack could be mounted in the spring. The snows might be late, but they would eventually come, and then not even the mighty armies of the Polypontus would be able to move. Plenty of time over the long months of the winter to make plans for war.

As Thirrin ran over this in her mind, she was arming herself in her best panoply: mail-shirt, helmet, shield, heavy cavalry saber, and short-hafted battle-ax. Its comforting weight and familiarity steadied her nerves and gave her an added sense of purpose, not that she needed much help. She’d already sent out her first commands to the chief burghers of the city to begin the evacuation of Frostmarris. All of the wagons and horses would be waiting at designated muster points, and the citizens would be gathering with the few possessions they’d be allowed to take with them. Redrought had long ago drawn up his war plans, and they’d been practiced time and again by army and citizen. The only difference this time was that it was for real. One of the few advantages of being a small country with many enemies in a dangerous world was the people’s readiness to face trouble without much complaint.

Thirrin buckled her belt, fastened the last strap, and strode to the door. She was just turning the handle when an obvious and devastating thought struck her. All of the plans and evacuations assumed Redrought would be defeated and killed! She stood with her head resting against the woodwork of the door as the realization sank in. She was making plans for her dad’s death.

Redrought: the huge man with the voice like a storm in the mountains, with a laugh like a rockslide, and with an almost childish sense of fun. Whenever she thought of him as King, she remembered his victories in battle and his ability to run a country. But as Dad, he was the man who’d brought her up, who’d played mountain bears with her as a little girl, chasing her along the corridors of the palace, roaring hugely, and pretending to eat her when he scooped her off her feet. As Dad, he was the man who loved cats and complained of his corns and had a collection of ridiculous fluffy slippers. What would she do if he were killed in battle?

For a moment panic threatened to swallow her up, but then she squared her shoulders and threw back her head. What would she do? She’d be a worthy daughter by avenging his death and leading her people with bravery and style. She was Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Wildcat of the North, and if her father were killed in battle, he would have earned his rightful place in Valhalla and could rest happy in the knowledge of her strength.

She pushed open the door and strode into the corridor. The palace was seething like a kicked ants’ nest. Servants hurried backward and forward, soldiers rushed around on lastminute errands, while wolfhounds bayed and howled as they caught the mood. Most of the Yule guests had left already, scattering to their homes to prepare for the emergency. Thirrin was looking for Maggiore and Oskan. Her first act as Regent had been to set the evacuation plan of the city in progress and her second had been to appoint her now ex-tutor and the witch’s son as her official advisers.

Oskan had seemed confused when the King had nodded his agreement to their appointment and when the housecarls of the palace guard had roared their approval, he’d flinched as though they were going to hit him. Despite the emergency of the moment, Thirrin grinned. She knew there was more to the Witch’s Son than met the eye: something unusual, probably magical, though exactly what form it might take she just wasn’t sure yet. But whatever it turned out to be, she was determined to make good use of it.

She arrived in her father’s quarters to find the King sitting comfortably in his chair while Grimswald scurried around opening chests and snapping at the servants. Oskan and Maggiore stood nearby, the older man sipping from a fine glass of cut crystal while the witch’s son chewed his nails. As she strode forward, Thirrin slapped Oskan’s hands down from his mouth, and he shamefacedly put them behind his back.

“Ah, Thirrin, good. The muster’s almost complete, so we’ve got ten minutes or so to finalize things,” Redrought boomed happily.

“Finalize things?”

“Yes. I’m leaving Primplepuss with you,” he said, stroking the little cat fondly. “Make sure she’s fed properly and fuss over her, otherwise she’ll fret.”

“Yes, Dad,” Thirrin replied, feeling that such a momentous time in the history of the country needed to be marked by something more significant than feeding instructions for the royal kitten.

“Oh, and I’m also leaving Grimswald with you.”

A sudden clatter as the old chamberlain dropped a piece of the King’s armor clearly showed he hadn’t been told about this.

“But, My Lord, I’ve always accompanied you on campaign! Who else will attend to your needs? Who else knows exactly how you like your bedchamber set out?”

“No one, Grimmy,” the King said kindly. “But I’m moving fast and your old mule will never keep up.”

“Even so, the King has a dignity and a sense of estate to maintain,” the old chamberlain insisted. “I could follow at my own pace and rendezvous with you later, after the battle.”

Redrought fell unusually silent, then said carefully, “I probably won’t need your services after the battle, Grimmy.”

In the quiet that followed this, Thirrin’s eyes filled with tears and Grimswald began to weep, blowing his nose noisily and looking at the King like a small child watching a parent unexpectedly leaving forever.

“Besides,” Redrought boomed at something like his usual level, “you’re too old. If you were a horse, I’d have put you out to pasture years ago … or eaten you.”

The old chamberlain smiled at that, as the King had intended him to. “Now, make sure all of the maps and charts are packed. I think some were left in the council chamber.”

Grimswald bowed, then almost shyly he took the King’s hand and held it for a moment. Then, blushing at breaking the rules of etiquette, he scurried off on his errand. Redrought turned to his daughter. “Keep him by you, Thirrin. There’s no one better at organizing a palace, and State occasions are his speciality. You never know, there may be a time again when the Queen of the Icemark will need his knowledge of precedence and procedure. Besides, thirty years of service shouldn’t end on a battlefield.”

“I’ll make sure he’s all right, Dad,” Thirrin answered quietly.

“Good,” Redrought said with a note of finality. Then he added, “The Icemark will be yours soon, Thirrin. You’ve been groomed and trained for this, so you know what you’re doing.”

“Yes, Dad,” Thirrin whispered, unable to trust her voice.

“With no snows blocking the roads I’m going to have to break this invasion force, if I can. Otherwise the whole of the country’s going to be wide open and no one will be ready enough to try to stop them. But if I do manage to destroy them, there’ll be nothing left of our army. And then you’ll need all the help you can get, because the Polypontus will send another force. Old Scipio Bellorum won’t give up that easily. Once the snows have come, you’ll be safe for the rest of the winter and you can get ready for the spring offensive. You’ve made allies of the Wolffolk; perhaps there are others who’ll help.”

“Who?”

“I’m not sure. … To the north, beyond The-Land-of-the-Ghosts. There are rumors of a people of some sort. But I don’t know. Find out. There are friends to be had with the unlikeliest faces.”

“And the Vampire King and Queen?”

“Well, they have the unlikeliest faces of all. But if anyone can make allies of them, you can. You’re different. Perhaps it’s your mother in you; you get more and more like her every day. When you smile, I see her again, my brave young shield-maiden of the Hypolitan.” He smiled at her sadly.

A sudden commotion outside the door signaled the arrival of a messenger to tell the King the muster was complete.

Thirrin hurried forward, hugged Redrought fiercely, and kissed him. She was achingly aware that this was probably the last time she’d see her father. “I love you, Dad,” she whispered in his ear. Then she stepped back, her face sternly set as the soldier marched in.

Redrought held up his hand and the trooper waited quietly. “Maggiore Totus and Oskan Witch’s Son, you both hold the sacred office of Royal Adviser. Are you up to the task?”

“No, My Lord,” Oskan blurted out.

“Good!” Redrought boomed, his voice getting back up to its normal level. “I’d have been worried if you thought you were. Just say what you feel honestly and ignore her snarling; it’ll make her think all the harder.”

“Don’t worry, My Lord,” said Maggiore in his gentle singsong voice. “We’ll look after her as best we can.”

The King smiled at him warmly and then picked up his shield. “Well, off we go!” he bellowed at the young soldier who had been waiting quietly. “We’ve a bit of a scrap waiting for us.”

After the door had slammed behind them, a huge vacuum of silence filled the room. Primplepuss, who’d been watching everything closely from her place on Redrought’s chair, stood and stared after them. But the door remained shut, and after a while she looked at Thirrin and opened her mouth in a tiny silent meow.

An icy wind kept the battlefield clear of the smoke from musket and cannon fire, so Redrought had a clear view of the fighting. He and the Lady Theowin were sitting on their horses on a hill overlooking the rocky ground locked between the mountain range called the Dancing Maidens and the frozen River Freme, where the two armies were struggling to destroy each other. For a moment the King was struck by the incredible beauty of battle. The pipes and drums of the Polypontian army shrilled and rattled whenever the wind blew in their direction, and the different regiments moved with a precision and grace Redrought found almost moving. The enemy soldiers were brilliant with color, wearing highly polished breastplates over trousers and doublets of red, yellow, or blue, depending on which regiment they belonged to. These, along with the sashes and plumes that were also a part of their uniform, almost shone in contrast to the steel and leather of Redrought’s army.

On the left wing the housecarls of the South Farthing were advancing against a line of musketeers and pikemen, while in the center the infantry of the fyrd were holding their own surprisingly well against Polypontian swordsmen. Up on the hill, Redrought found it was almost possible to forget the pain and blood of war. But when the wind shifted, the screams of the wounded washed over them in a huge wave before it shifted again, and once more all became a silent ballet.

He waited for precisely the right moment before giving the signal for the cavalry of the South Farthing to move onto the field, the troopers drawing their sabers as one in a graceful arc that glittered in the sun. Then a clarion rang out, and the horses leaped to a full gallop, feinting a charge at the Polypontian center where their musketeers fired a volley and the pikemen closed ranks, ready to receive the shock of onset. But at the last moment the cavalry swung away in a controlled turn before finally smashing as a solid wall of horse and steel into the enemy’s right wing. Redrought could see clearly as the battle-trained horses lashed out with their hooves at the line before them and the cavalry troopers hacked at the Polypontian soldiers. For a moment the enemy line wavered, giving ground before the ferocity of the attack, but then a reserve regiment of infantry swiftly moved up and the position was saved.

Redrought was deeply impressed by the discipline the invaders had shown throughout. At first he’d been disappointed that Scipio Bellorum himself wasn’t in command of the army, but whoever this general was, he was wily and determined, if a little lacking in imagination. “Battle tactics by the book,” Redrought had commented to the Lady Theowin as the Polypontian army reacted almost mechanically to each problem he sent them. “It’ll be an awful shock when they find they’ve lost.”

This was the second day of the battle, and it was almost time for the final throw. The Lady Theowin had fought a brilliant holding action until the King had arrived, using her small force to harry and slow down the Polypontians so that they’d hardly moved more than a mile from the mountain pass they’d managed to force. The terrain was obviously rocky so close to the mountains, and the steep scree slopes and canyons had made ideal ambush points from which Theowin had led almost suicidal hit-and-run raids.

Redrought looked at her surreptitiously now as she calmly watched the battle from her horse. She had the profile of a vicious old eagle, he thought, the nasal guard on her helmet barely managing to cover her hugely hooked nose, and her bright blue eyes showed nothing but cold calculation as the battle swung one way, then the other. She’d tied her long steel-gray hair into two braids and coiled them up over each ear so that it looked like she was wearing two smaller helmets just below the rim of her real one. She’d also painted a black line under her eyes and chewed something that dyed her usually strong white teeth bloodred. Redrought shuddered. How many Polypontian soldiers had seen her fierce old face as their last view of this world before the final dark had taken them? He was only thankful she was on his side.

He turned back to the battle and began his closing moves. He gave the signal, and the battery of ballistas began their barrage, the huge wheel-mounted crossbows sending flight after flight of steel bolts scything into the enemy ranks. One of the few remaining cannons replied, but its range fell well short of Redrought’s position. The numbers of the big guns had been reduced by more than three quarters after the first day of the battle when the King had led his cavalry against their batteries. After Redrought had calculated how long it took to reposition each cannon and how long it took to reload, it was a simple matter of outflanking them and charging between salvos. Of course, if the enemy general had been a little more imaginative, he’d have positioned his cannons in defensive circles or squares and protected them with pikemen, but fortunately this general was no Scipio Bellorum. He already had enough of an advantage with his numbers; if he’d had tactical flair as well, the battle would have been lost on the first day.

Redrought now sent his orders to the regiments of longbows and they, too, began to send devastating flights of arrows into the enemy position. It was a huge pity he’d not had more archers to use against them. Their effective range was more than twice that of the muskets, and they could shoot six arrows a minute as opposed to one round fired by the cumbersome guns. On the first day of the battle the longbows had had a brief but bloody duel with the musketeers, during which the archers had devastated their opponents without even coming into their range.

It hadn’t all gone the Icemark’s way, though. The invading force was huge and superbly disciplined, moving with confidence and bravery against Redrought’s soldiers. And even though their general was no genius, he was at least competent and obviously experienced. The fyrd had suffered badly in the opening stages of the battle, and it had taken all of Redrought’s cunning and the steadiness of his veteran housecarls to hold the line and prevent a rout. The Lady Theowin had also been an invaluable wild card, striking terror into the enemy wherever she appeared, leading her cavalry in ferocious charges that smashed through the strongest defense, then swept away before the Polypontian cavalry could strike back. Again and again her appearance in the nick of time had saved the day, and the Polypontians had been slowly ground down.

There was one other factor that drove the soldiers of the Icemark to greater heights of courage than they’d ever reached before: Redrought let it be known that he thought Scipio Bellorum had decided not to lead this invasion himself because he thought victory was assured. Their little country would be a pushover, and his army would sweep through the land destroying all opposition and taking what they wanted. They’d enslave the people — the loved ones of the very soldiers who were fighting now against the invaders — they’d steal livestock and property, and then when they’d bled the land dry, they’d destroy whatever they couldn’t use. Bellorum probably thought the Icemark would be added to the huge Empire of the Polypontus in less than one campaigning season.

As Redrought had hoped, his soldiers had been incensed: Personal and national pride was at stake, and the Polypontians would pay dearly for every piece of earth they took.

And now it was time for Redrought to play his trump card. The Polypontian general had no idea that he was prepared to sacrifice his entire army to stop their advance. Thirrin had to have enough time to escape to the province of the Hypolitan, and there must be no enemy soldiers left to take advantage of the late snows.

“This is it, then, Theowin,” he said to the fierce old baroness who sat on her horse beside him.

“Yes,” she answered calmly. Then she continued in a different tone. “But before we go, there’s something I’d like to ask you.”

Redrought was shocked to hear what sounded almost like a note of panic in her voice. “Ask away. If I can give it, it’s yours.”

She hesitated as though trying to find the right words, worrying Redrought even more. Then at last she said, “After the Baron died, no man came near me in twenty years. I seem to scare them, for some reason. So … I’d like you to kiss me, My Lord. Let me feel a man’s beard tickling my face again before I die.”

In the silence that followed, the war chant of the housecarls could clearly be heard echoing across the battlefield. “OUT! Out! Out! OUT! Out! Out! OUT! Out! Out!” The fierce determination in the explosive sound gave the King just the level of brute courage he needed, and he suddenly leaned from his saddle and kissed the grim warrior’s mouth of the Baroness. Their helmets clashed and rang like bells as the kiss was firmly planted, drawing the attention of the regiment of cavalry waiting in reserve behind the hill, and a huge cheer rose up from the troopers.

Redrought laughed thunderously, then standing in his stirrups he drew his sword and gave the signal to advance. The cavalry fanned out and set off at a slow walk down from the hill. Before him, Redrought could clearly see how over the last two days of fighting his tactics had ground down the Polypontians and forced them on to the defensive. They stood at bay now, surrounded by the army of the Icemark even though they still outnumbered Redrought’s force by at least three to one. Perhaps their general hoped that they’d smash themselves to pieces on his superior numbers and that he could ultimately win the war of attrition by sitting and waiting. But he had no chance of that happening: Redrought was ready to end the battle right now.

The archers were still pouring flights of arrows into the enemy ranks, concentrating much of their shooting on the center, knowing exactly where Redrought’s hammer blow would fall. The Polypontians had positioned their remaining cannons at the corners of a defensive square, and at the beginning of the day they had devastated the ranks of the Icemark. But Redrought had reacted quickly to the threat and ordered the ballistas to aim their long steel bolts at the batteries. For two hours the duel had been fought, and as a result the guns had fallen as silent as their dead crews. Meanwhile the housecarls kept up a dogged attack on the enemy’s left wing, enduring volley after volley of musket fire, then rushing forward with locked shields to hack at the line and force the Polypontians back. And all around, the fyrd seethed like a sea flowing back and forth and leaving a debris of dead like flotsam behind them.

Redrought judged his moment to the last possible second and then, after leaning across to kiss the Lady Theowin again, he stood in his stirrups and roared out the war cry of the Icemark: “Blood! Blast! And Fire! Blood! Blast! And Fire!”

The troopers of the cavalry took it up in a great roar, and as one they leaped forward in a charge that shook the ground beneath them. The archers stepped up their shooting rate and were soon loosing their arrows over the heads of the cavalry, then they laid aside their bows and, drawing swords, they charged forward to support them.

Redrought could hear the chant of the housecarls as his cavalry bore down on the ranks of the Polypontian army, the wind of his speed making his hair stream and tumble like flames of fire around his helmet. Even now the enemy’s discipline held, and they attempted to redress their shattered ranks as the cavalry of the Icemark roared down on them. A salvo of musket fire erupted on to the cold winter air, smashing into the advanced ranks of the cavalry, but it was as effective as throwing stones at an oncoming tidal wave and the charge thundered on. Redrought bellowed his rage, and his stallion echoed him with a squeal as they smashed into the line of soldiers before them. The enemy ranks broke apart, and the cavalry cut deep into the Polypontian position, the Lady Theowin laying about her with a huge battle-ax and the horses striking out at the Polypontian soldiers before them. The housecarls, too, breached the line and steadily carved their way through, chanting as they came. At the center of the Polypontian host, their general watched calmly beneath his battle standard of a running white horse as Redrought’s army smashed through his lines. Then, drawing his sword, he roared out an order, and the remains of his once mighty cavalry force leaped forward to meet the soldiers of the Icemark.

Many of the musketeers used their guns as clubs, having no time to reload in the close press of the hand-to-hand fighting, and even some of the pikemen, the most effective of the enemy troops, threw aside their twenty-foot spears and drew their cutlasses. Standing shoulder to shoulder, the Polypontian soldiers hacked and slashed at all before them, but the steadily locked shields of the housecarls bore them back and the wild rush of the fyrd swarmed forward, screaming insanely as they came.

Redrought and his cavalry still pressed on, driving the enemy before them. Then, catching sight of the Polypontian standard, he turned his warhorse to meet it, the animal rearing and screaming a challenge before leaping forward. King and general met in a ringing clash of sword on sword, Redrought forcing back his enemy in a savage display of fighting rage that ended as the Bear of the North broke the general’s arm through his shield and then hacked his head from his shoulders. The Polypontians fell back in dismay, but even now their discipline held as they rallied around the battle standard and prepared a defiant last stand around a small hill in the center of the field.

For a moment all fighting ceased. This was the final phase of the battle, and Redrought prepared his cavalry for their last charge. The Imperial lines bristled like a steel hedgehog as the pikemen leveled their spears, and those enemy musketeers who had reloaded their weapons waited in grim silence. The Lady Theowin sat on her horse beside the King, smiling through a mask of blood that ran down her face from a scalp wound while gently wiping the blade of her battle-ax on a delicate lace handkerchief she’d produced from somewhere.

“They’ll die hard, Theowin,” said Redrought calmly.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Good, aren’t they?”

“Very. But we’ve almost destroyed them, and by the time any reinforcements arrive from the Polypontus, the best general in all the Icemark will be waiting for them and not even Scipio Bellorum will be able to beat him.”

“The best general in the Icemark?” the Lady Theowin asked. “Who?”

“Oh, you know him well. We all do: General Snow and his ally, Marshal Ice. No army can march through one of their blizzards or pass any road they’ve blocked.”

Theowin laughed. “No army at all,” she agreed. Then, pointing with her ax at the Polypontian lines, she said, “Shall we?”

Redrought nodded, and standing in his stirrups he stabbed his sword into the air and roared out the order to advance. With a great shout, the soldiers of the Icemark swept down on the enemy lines. A volley of musket fire rang out at pointblank range, cutting a ragged swath through the fyrd, but still they came on, the entire army shouting the housecarl war chant: “OUT! Out! Out! OUT! Out! Out! OUT! Out! Out!”

Redrought and his cavalry smashed into the line of enemy pikemen, sweeping them aside with a huge roar, the air rent by screaming as soldiers on both sides fell. Many saddles were emptied by the long spears, but into the breach rushed the housecarls and fyrd, cutting at the Imperial troops until a small knot struggled about the battle standard, which swung one way and then the other as desperate hands reached to take it and Polypontian soldiers furiously defended it. Redrought and Theowin had both been unhorsed and now led the struggle to take the battle standard on foot, raining blows at the stubborn fighters before them.

Soldiers on both sides fell in huge numbers as the King led charge after charge against the enemy defenders, their superb discipline holding out as they continually redressed their line and denied the Icemark their standard. But at last Redrought breached their defense, just as the Lady Theowin fell under a hail of sword blows.

Roaring his rage and grief, Redrought drove forward, sweeping aside all before him with the swinging arc of the battle-ax he’d taken from Theowin’s lifeless hand. The last Polypontian soldiers fought with ferocity but fell to the King’s ax, until at last he was fighting hand to hand with the standard-bearer, the last man standing of the entire invading army.

The standard-bearer was wearing the plumed helmet and elegantly gilded armor of his office, but his sword was bloody with use and razor-sharp and he fought for the honor of his fallen comrades. Redrought and the standard-bearer traded cut and parry, whirling around the pivot of the flagpole, whose shaft the Polypontian soldier had driven deep into the ground. Every thrust of his sword was powered by desperation and a driving thirst to kill the barbarian king who’d destroyed his army, but he was also a veteran of more than twenty campaigns and he fought with the skill of long experience. Cut and thrust, parry and feint — the economy and measure of his tactics were superb. But Redrought had neither the time nor inclination to admire his fighting finesse and, spotting a sudden gap in his defense, he chopped deep into the junction where neck meets shoulder, and the last Polypontian fell.

Triumphant, Redrought seized the battle flag and held it aloft with a huge cry of exaltation. But at his feet the standard-bearer felt a surge of hatred that drove him through his pain, and with his dying breath he reached up and drove his sword deep into Redrought’s belly.

A strange silence slowly descended on the field. Only the groans of the dying and the moaning of the icy wind could be heard.