Last Battle of the Icemark (12 page)

Simple really. Now all she had to do was think of a scenario . . .

Cronus drew on the Power of the Darkness, giving his mind the strength it needed to cross the border between his domain and the Physical Realms. For a moment the interstices resisted his probing, but soon they began to yield, and finally he was able to tear through the membrane and emerge into the sky of a bright autumnal day in the Polypontus.

Below him lay the battle formation of the Hordes, like a huge schematic plan of Erinor's tactics. They were advancing on a walled city that was defended by a garrison under the command of what appeared to be an experienced officer. But Cronus could clearly see that he was hampered by poor supplies and a demoralised fighting force. It should be a fairly simple matter to capture the city; all he had to do was manipulate Erinor's simple warrior mind, and victory would be theirs . . . and his.

Quickly he found the Basilea. At first, flesh, blood and bone resisted him, but gradually Cronus gained control of her mind and body, and soon he was looking at the world through Erinor's eyes. It was now just a matter of time before the city
fell, giving the Icemark even more reason to intervene. And then, once the land was empty of its army of humans, Snow Leopards and werewolves, it would be simplicity itself to invade. Providing, of course, Oskan and his hideous White Witches were distracted elsewhere.

The wide front of the Tri-Horns' phalanx advanced ponderously across the plain. There were over five hundred of the huge beasts, many of them roaring like gigantic lions and rumbling like distant storms as they stepped heavily forward. Each one was as high and as broad as a house, and their immense heads, with the three horns that gave them their name, hung low from their massive shoulders and jutted forward like formidable battering rams. Tri-Horns were definitely not built for speed, but they were enormously strong and virtually unstoppable once they'd begun their advance, and any target could expect to be annihilated.

Basilea Erinor and Cronus watched the slow approach of the city impatiently from her position high on the lead Tri-Horn's back, where she sat in the traditional fighting platform or ‘howdah', avidly studying the defences as they drew nearer. The whitewashed battlements, curtain walls and towers gleamed like quartz against the pristine blue of the sky, dazzling the attackers and giving the impression of impregnability. They'd all been built in the heyday of the empire's powers and were truly awesome, but in these times of Imperial decline the garrison was at less than a third of the strength needed to defend the city, and their supplies of weaponry and munitions were almost exhausted.

Erinor's eye was made to follow the ebb and flow of the battle for the walls, and something told her it was exactly
the right time to send in reinforcements. Ever since she'd first had the idea to break out of Artemesion and attack the Polypontian Empire it was almost as though there was something in her head, guiding her actions and telling her what to do. But being the great and arrogant warrior she was, she simply attributed this to a highly developed tactical instinct.

The Shock Troops of the male regiments were almost exhausted, having completed their task of ‘softening up' the defenders. Probably less than a quarter of their numbers would have survived to this point, but like all men, they were expendable. Her conscience wasn't troubled by this: they were well trained and equipped, and had been given the signal honour of opening the battle. And there would always be others to take their places; the male animal was really quite superfluous to civilisation's needs, and by fighting and dying for their Basilea they at least partly justified their existence. True Hypolitan society had always been organised in this way: men were useful tools that could be discarded once their usefulness was over, and for the Shock Troops, that point had just about been reached. Soon the elite female regiments would go in and continue the battle for the walls. A useful diversion while she, Erinor, led the Tri-Horn assault on the main gates. She laughed aloud in pure excitement and elation as they closed in on the latest victim of her lightning campaign.

Her animal groaned, rumbled deeply and began to sidle, threatening to collide with its neighbour in the phalanx and disrupt the line. Quickly Erinor snatched up her goad and dug its spike deep into the thick hide of her mount until it redressed its position and plodded on. They were evil-tempered beasts with no sense of loyalty, and they'd kill their riders as happily as the enemy. They only served the
Hypolitan at all because of strict training and iron control that involved using hot, razor-sharp goads and a constant threat of death.

Some might argue that the beasts reflected the society they served perfectly, but Erinor didn't care about any of that; like the men of the Shock Regiments, the animals were useful tools, and now, as the walls of the city approached, she gave the command and the phalanx of Tri-Horns formed itself into a fighting arrow with the Basilea at its point.

From the walls, the defenders watched the approach of the war-beasts with dread. They'd been used against three cities in the province just south of the Hypolitan heartland already, and all of them had fallen. What chance had they with an under-strength garrison that was desperately trying to defend the walls against the almost suicidal ferocity of the Shock Troops, and which would soon be called upon to protect the main gates from the Tri-Horn attack? Surrender wasn't an option: the Basilea wiped out the citizens of every settlement she took, and then repopulated it with her own people. Fighting for every inch of land kept her army in tip-top battle condition.

The garrison commander had had the foresight to evacuate the non-combatants, so he only had himself and his soldiers to worry about, but this was cold comfort as he watched the Tri-Horns approach the gates. He snapped an order, and the few cannon he had left were loaded with chain and grape shot. He only had enough powder for precisely three salvoes, so every one had to count. He couldn't risk solid shot, even though a seven-pound cannonball was about the only thing that would bring down a Tri-Horn; he just didn't have enough cannon, powder or ammunition to make any impression on the
hideous beasts that were bearing down on him. At least with grape shot he could take out as many Hypolitan as possible, and maybe he'd injure some of the Tri-Horn enough to render them
hors de combat
.

The cannon all roared at once, and Erinor watched as the fighting howdah of one of the Tri-Horns erupted into splinters. All of the six Hypolitan soldiers it was carrying were killed, and she screamed in rage and hurled abuse at the defenders, but there were no other casualties and the advance continued.

The beasts began to bellow, as they always did when they neared their target, and immediately the cannon answered, sending an explosion of broken metal and chains smashing into the phalanx. Once again the Basilea looked about her; several of her soldiers were dead or wounded, but not enough to have a significant effect on the advance. Some of the Tri-Horns were also bloodied, but the injuries were superficial, protected as they were by their massively thick hides, and also by leather and canvas surcoats that draped over their backs and almost reached the ground to either side of them. Their heads needed no such protection, being naturally armoured with the three horns and with a wide ‘ruff' of bone and hide that protected their skulls and their necks.

They were almost close enough now to begin their charge, and Erinor stood in the howdah and yelled the order. The Tri-Horns bellowed and surged forward at a fast walking pace which powered the phalanx along like a living avalanche. The cannon roared again and one of the beasts fell, a chance shard of metal piercing its eye and brain. Two others stumbled over the fallen animal, dislodging their howdahs, but they scrambled to their heavy feet again and continued with the charge.

The Basilea now fitted an arrow to the string of a longbow, and on her word a dense flight of arrows rained down on the city's walls. Many of the defenders fell, but now Erinor and her Hordes squatted down in their howdahs and braced themselves for impact. The Tri-Horns were thundering down towards the hugely thick and tall gates. Erinor screamed in elation and hatred; another city of the empire was about to die!

With a splintering, groaning crash her animal smashed into the portal, which was made of the trunks of entire trees, all roughly dressed and pinned together with long steel bolts. For a moment the gates resisted, while the defenders rained arrows, musket fire and rocks down on the phalanx. Erinor and her soldiers replied with their deadly longbows and javelins, but then, with a massive heave, her Tri-Horn was through. The gates fell with a booming crash, crushing dozens of soldiers who'd braced them with great spars of wood.

Nearby, a section of the wall next to the gatehouse began to crumble, then fell with a booming rumble as three Tri-Horns, working in unison, forced their way through. Another breach was made as four of the huge beasts burst through the stonework. Then walls crumbled and fell seemingly everywhere as more and more of the Tri-Horns, working in teams, rammed the masonry.

The defenders retreated before them, the superb Polypontian discipline holding in the face of unstoppable power as ranks of musketeers fought skirmishing retreats, and shield-bearers risked all to scale the mighty legs of the beasts and fight hand-to-hand with the soldiers in the howdahs.

Erinor's face was a fire of glowing red flesh and ragingly mad eyes and mouth. “DIE! DIE!” she screamed repeatedly as her Tri-Horn waded through the houses and buildings that
barred its way, like a child walking through long grass. To either side of her the army fanned out and rolled forward over the city, flattening all before it.

The commander of the defenders died futilely casting a spear into the face of a Tri-Horn. He was trodden beneath one of its massive feet, wondering in his last thoughts if the ants he had crushed as a child had felt like this.

The elite female regiments of the Hordes now poured through the breaches and fallen gates, killing everyone and everything in their path, while the Tri-Horns rolled on flattening and crushing buildings, stomping defenders underfoot and carving paths of destruction for the following Hordes to use.

The city fell in less than an hour, the last act of violence perpetrated against it being Erinor's javelin pinning a ten-year-old child, who had missed the evacuation, to the tree he had been hiding behind.

Cronus nodded in satisfaction as he withdrew from the Basilea's mind. One more city had been added to the growing tally of Erinor's victories. It could only be a matter of time now before the Icemark and its allies rode gallantly to the rescue. Everything was going wonderfully to plan.

He returned to the Darkness, where other preparations awaited his attention. His granddaughter really was an admirable Adept, whose powers would be very useful; all he needed to do was to influence her way of thinking a little more. In particular, he must crush her feelings, her capacity to hate in a way that threatened her ability to wield her magic efficiently. But also he must manipulate the need to love that still contaminated her psyche, and then convert its strength into an ability to act with cold calculation.

C
HAPTER
11

“
T
hen they're definitely missing?” said Thirrin quietly.

“No sign of them anywhere,” Oskan answered. “Werewolf and housecarle scouts have searched throughout the city and surrounding plain with no result, and so far nothing's been found in the Great Forest either. And yes, before you ask, I've alerted the Holly and Oak Kings and they're sending out search parties too.”

“What about the . . . Magical Plain?” she asked, not yet daring to refer to the Darkness by name.

Oskan sighed; this was the question he'd been expecting. “Not a sign,” he said, and paused before adding: “At least, I don't
think
there's a sign.”

Thirrin immediately swung back from the window in their private apartments, where she'd been staring out over the frosty garden. “You don't
think
there's a sign? What do you mean?”

Oskan scratched his head contemplatively. “Well, it's odd, sometimes I get the faintest echo of something . . . but I'm not sure. It could just be wishful thinking.”

Thirrin felt a thrill of fear shoot down her spine. “Oskan!
Don't you see what this could mean? They could be trapped there; perhaps even lured away, and then their presence in some way masked because . . . whoever has them knew you'd be looking for them!”

Oskan was very well aware of this possibility; he just didn't want to acknowledge it. Sometimes, when dealing with the Darkness, just accepting that a thing might happen could actually bring it about. He'd considered lying to Thirrin and telling her that he'd sensed nothing, but she was his wife, and if anyone deserved honesty from him, it was her. The fact that she was the Queen had no bearing on his decision at all; Oskan would happily lie to a roomful of emperors and a houseful of monarchs if he thought it would make his life easier. But Thirrin was different; she could somehow always guess when he wasn't being completely truthful.

“Look, I don't think we should panic just yet. It could be that they stumbled across a gateway – it
was
Samhein, after all – and they're just taking their time finding a way out.”

“But what about the possibility they've been abducted or lured there?”

“We don't actually know that's the case,” said Oskan in what he hoped were encouraging tones.

“Then where are they? Two young men, complete with horses, and a giant Snow Leopard don't just vanish! They've got to be somewhere!”

“Well, yes. Obviously. But finding out exactly where is a different matter.”

“Just what is the point of you being the most powerful warlock in the land, and possibly the world, if you can't use your Gifts to find your own son and his friends?” Thirrin asked in frustration. “I mean,
why
can't you find them?”

This time Oskan decided to at least withhold the truth, even if he didn't directly lie. He was actually more worried than he was admitting. In one regard Thirrin was absolutely right: as a warlock he should have been able to find the kids with ease, and the fact that he couldn't suggested that someone was masking their whereabouts. Someone, or something, that was very powerful indeed.

Had the time now come to use the Power of the Darkness himself? If he opened his mind to it now, he would have all the Ability he'd need to rescue Sharley and the others. Perhaps he'd even have enough strength to destroy Cronus without the need to sacrifice anything! Surely it wasn't inevitable he'd be corrupted?

He shook his head as though to clear such thoughts and temptations from his mind. He must concentrate on the problem at hand. Deep down in the recesses of his brain he felt that opening his mind to that wickedness was not the answer. He must be strong.

Thirrin was watching him now, waiting for an explanation as to why he couldn't find Sharley. She reached up and placed a hand on his arm. Suddenly Oskan found her very presence blindingly irritating. Even her simple gesture of touching his arm incensed him.

“In the name of all that's holy, woman, must you be forever pawing at me?” he exploded. “I'm doing everything I can, and if you think it's not good enough, then try finding your precious son yourself! Now leave me be!”

Thirrin gasped and stepped back. She hardly recognised her own husband as his face darkened and his eyes glittered with a vicious rage. “Oskan, I . . .”

“You what? You just want me to sift through the entire
Cosmos for your son, is that it? Or perhaps you want me to sift through every grain of sand on the sea bed, eh?”

Thirrin watched in horrified fascination as he seemed to actually grow before her eyes: his shoulders became heavier and rounded, and his face grew broader. “Well, let me tell you, there's just not enough of me to go round! There are too many demands on my time; I mean, just how do you think your precious little kingdom has survived for so long against all the muck and maniacs of the world? Can you guess? No? Well, I'll tell you, because my witches and I have been there to protect it, that's why. And now I'm getting a little bit tired, so I'm sorry if I can't find your son at the precise moment you demand; it just might take me a little bit longer, all right?”

“He's your son too,” Thirrin whispered.

Oskan looked up, and was just drawing breath to renew the attack when he saw his wife's face. Her eyes were brimming with tears and she looked almost afraid, if such a thing were possible for the undefeated Queen of the Icemark.

Immediately Oskan felt the anger drain away, almost as though some evil energy had been withdrawn, and he slumped against the window frame. “Thirrin, I . . . I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking . . . the words just came into my head . . . it wasn't me . . .”

She watched as her husband seemed to shrink back to his normal size, and sighed in relief. She'd seen these fits before; once, in the first war against the Polypontus, when they'd both been little more than children, Oskan had exploded in just such a way, and it was only by keeping her head and talking normally to him that he'd come back to her.

With all the resolution of the warrior she was, she suddenly gathered him into a hug. “That's all right, my love. You're
just tired; we all are. We've had nothing but war for years and now it looks like it's all happening again. I'm sorry too.”

Oskan buried his head in her shoulder and waited for the last dregs of anger to finally drain away. But what had it been? Where had it come from? Thirrin was bound to ask and he wasn't sure he had any answers . . . or, at least, no answers that anyone would want to hear. He was just composing an excuse that would explain it all when he was saved by the arrival of Tharaman and Krisafitsa. Getting two very large Snow Leopards into even a good-sized room took some manoeuvring and effort, so Thirrin was sufficiently distracted to allow diversionary tactics.

“Any news?” asked Krisafitsa immediately.

“None, I'm afraid,” Oskan replied, regaining his composure completely. “But I know for a fact that they're all still alive and well. If anything had happened to them, I'd have known.”

“Well, that's one small mercy, at least,” said Tharaman. “Now all we need to do is find them. They can't just have disappeared.”

“We've been over that ground, Tharaman,” said Thirrin hastily. “Let Oskan rest for a while.”

“What if Oskan took us into the Magical Realms?” asked Krisafitsa, ignoring Thirrin as fears for her child put her usual consideration aside. “We could search properly then, and with the Witchfather to guide us we'd be perfectly safe.”

“Perfectly safe?” cried Oskan, shuddering at the very thought of what an enormous responsibility two Snow Leopards and Thirrin would be. “I'd never describe even myself as
safe
when I go into the Magical Realms; no one's
safe
in there, not even if they're armed and armoured with
every protective charm on the planet. The place has this habit of changing the rules and pulling the rug from under your feet . . .”

“Is it carpeted, then?” asked Tharaman.

“What?”

“The Magical Realms, are they carpeted? It's just that you mentioned pulling a rug from somewhere and I just wondered if perhaps . . .”

“I think it's a figure of speech, my dear,” said Krisafitsa. “I do believe it means to be taken by surprise when you least expect it.”

“Oh, I see . . . strange expression . . .”

“Look, never mind that,” said Oskan, beginning to feel the strange anger rising again. “The fact is, I couldn't guarantee anyone's safety, and the idea of two of the most powerful monarchs in the northern hemisphere
and
their consorts mucking about in a dangerous place like—”

His outraged flow was interrupted by King Grishmak bursting through the door in his usual brisk manner. “Eh up, hairy arses! How's things?”

“Not good, Grishy,” said Thirrin. “Oskan was just about to have a stroke at the thought of guiding us through the Magical Realms, and there's still no sign of the youngsters.”

“Ah, you won't enjoy the bit of news I've just heard from the relay, then.”

“What news? It's not about Sharley, is it?” asked Thirrin in a panic.

“No, no!” Grishmak replied hurriedly. “I just meant it's even more pressure at a stressful time, that's all.”

“You'd better let us have it, then,” said Oskan wearily.

“Erinor and her Hordes are closing in on the southern
border of the Polypontian heartlands, and if they continue at the same rate of advance, they could be at the capital within weeks.”

“Oh, great!” said Thirrin angrily. “Where'd the information come from?”

“Another military refugee. Staff officer of the High Command, no less. I suppose his tactical eye has shown up all the flaws in the Polypontian response to the emergency, and he's getting out while the going's good.”

“Where is he now, Grishy?” asked Thirrin. “None of the Wolf-folk got . . . peckish did they?”

“What do you mean?” asked the werewolf King in outraged tones. “We only eat the occasional prisoner of war if the moment merits such an act. And at the moment there're officially no hostilities between ourselves and what's left of the empire.”

“Right, so he's safe, then?”

“Yes, of course. He's being held at the southern border.”

“Good. I want him transported here as quickly as possible. And make it quick, I think the weather's closing in.”

“I don't think there'll be any blizzards for a day or two yet,” said Grishmak, eyeing the lowering sky through the window.

“Three days and five hours, to be precise,” said Oskan.

“They should just about make it, then, if a werewolf patrol brings him north immediately,” said Thirrin briskly. “Well, my friends, I think we're just going to have to put our plans into action. I never thought I'd see the day when an alliance army would invade the Polypontus, and certainly not to defend the capital from an attack.”

The room fell silent as everyone pondered such an idea, but
none of them could concentrate on the emergency exclusively. Sharley, Mekhmet and Kirimin filled a good part of their thoughts. The boys may have been battle-hardened warriors, but to Thirrin, Sharley was still her little boy and she physically ached with the need to find him and bring him home safely. But at the same time a nagging fear and . . . 
doubt
, for and about Oskan, worried at the edge of her mind.

Basilea Erinor sat quietly while the sounds of the camp flowed over her. She'd been pleased to revive the ancient tradition of the
yurt
, which the ancestors had used during their migrations between the grazing pastures high on the mountain plateaus of their homelands. They made ideal campaign tents, being much more robust and weatherproof than the average tent, and their domed, ‘beehive' shape, covered in hides and carpets, gave a greater sense of solidity and permanence than the usual canvas. This in itself was useful, as any enemy spy who observed an encampment gained the impression that Erinor and her Hordes had arrived to stay, and had built a town already.

Erinor smiled; the war of minds was sometimes more important than the fighting. When an invaded people saw their camps they feared the Hordes had come to stay, and when they heard the tales of the Basilea's ferocity, they often surrendered without a fight. She wasn't entirely sure why; after all, she never showed mercy. Everyone was always slaughtered. In a fast-moving campaign there was no room or time for prisoners. Perhaps the conquered people were like rabbits that would crouch and scream in terror when a stoat was on their trail, waiting for the hunter to come and kill them.

But she had no more time for such theorising. Her
designated time of an hour's quiet was at an end, and her most important strategic and tactical decisions had been made.