Last Battle of the Icemark (13 page)

As often happened at such times, her mind seemed to clear suddenly and she regained the ability to think about things in a less rigid and unbending way. It was almost as though something had been controlling her mind, and had released its hold now that the important business of tactics and warfare had been dealt with. Erinor smiled again; she believed it was at such times that the Goddess herself guided her thoughts and actions, proving that the Hordes truly were the instruments of the Great Mother in a flawed and evil world.

Sighing contentedly, Erinor now called for her second-in-command, and within a matter of seconds Ariadne Artimesou arrived, still dressed in full armour. She'd been training with the Sacred Regiment of mounted archers, but had almost literally dropped everything when Erinor's order for her presence arrived. She bowed low, expertly gauging the Basilea's mood as she did so.

“Sit,” said Erinor curtly. “The archers were on target?”

“Two missed more than the allowed percentage. They'll be whipped tonight.”

“Then don't lay on with too much vigour.”

Ariadne was amazed. The Basilea had never shown concern about punishments before, but everything was explained when she added: “They'll be needed in the battle the day after tomorrow. The Polypontian army's the biggest we've faced. And Andronicus is a good general. We'll need every soldier we can get.”

Ariadne decided to risk pushing harder than she usually dared for information. “Do you expect the Imperial troops to be more effective than of late?”

“More effective, better led and more desperate than any we've fought so far.” Erinor stared at Ariadne with her bleak grey eyes until she was squirming. She may have had more than fifteen years' experience as a field commander in the endless tribal wars high in the mountains of Artemesion, but the Basilea could still reduce her to a quivering wreck with just a twitch of her head. “Make no mistake, Ariadne; desperation's their greatest weapon. Since the death of the Bellorums they've never won a battle, they've lost most of their empire, and now we're about to invade the heartland of the Polypontus. They have to stop us, or die trying. And I intend to see that their trying isn't good enough, and that they do die, preferably screeching in agony.”

Ariadne bowed her head. “The Hordes will be prepared.”

“‘Will be'? ‘Will be'?” Erinor suddenly exploded. “They'd better be prepared now, at this very minute!” She leaped from her low divan and drew her sword. “We'll inspect every regiment now, and if I find one that is less than ready, your head will be my battle standard!”

The Basilea stormed out of her yurt, with Ariadne scurrying behind. There then began a detailed inspection of each and every regiment, during which weaponry, equipment and knowledge of all tactical moves were checked and rechecked. It wasn't until the small hours of the morning that the last division was dismissed and the Basilea nodded to herself.

“Adequate. Barely, but your head's safe for now. Make this a learning experience, Ariadne, and be sure that every soldier is ready at all times of the day.” The second-in-command bowed deeply, her face an expressionless mask. “You may stand down for now,” Erinor continued. “Training at first light.”

Returning to her yurt, she laughed out loud. “That'll keep
you on your toes,” she said happily. But then a tiny movement in the darkened shelter made her draw her sword and leap forward with a bark of challenge. “Who's there? Come out and die!”

A tall man stepped into the small pool of light from the night-lamp.

“Alexandros!” She sheathed her sword. “Must you sit in darkness? I might have killed you!”

He bowed deeply. “As a man of the Hypolitan, I realise that this may happen at any time.”

Erinor glanced at him sharply, but his face was completely impassive. In truth, she wasn't sure what she'd do if she thought her Consort was showing a ‘rebellious insubordination to the Rule of Law,' as the statute books put it. She'd been with Alexandros now for twenty years and she truly wondered if she could bring herself to kill him, even if he were to openly preach revolution against the rule of women.

“You've eaten?” she asked.

“In the male mess-tent, earlier,” he confirmed.

“In that case we'll turn in. It's going to be a full day tomorrow.”

Her Consort remained standing, his eyes on the ground.

“All right, what is it?” she asked, immediately recognising the mute request for discussion.

“The Shock Troops of the Dragon Regiment are under-equipped. They're short of ammunition for crossbows. If they're to perform adequately in the coming battle they'll need supplying.”

Erinor removed her quilted winter coat and let it drop, knowing that Alexandros would pick it up and store it in its proper chest. “Very well. Anything else?”

“Some in the same regiment lack body armour. I realise they're only men and therefore expendable. But the longer they survive, the greater their effectiveness.”

“True,” Erinor agreed. “Talk to the quartermistress.”

Alexandros bowed, at the same time neatly gathering the Basilea's coat and packing it away. He then helped his wife remove her felt boots.

“Ah, that's better,” she said with relief. “My feet haven't seen daylight in twelve hours.”

“You'll be in the saddle for longer than that when we fight the Imperial army.”

“Will I, now?” the Basilea replied, interested to see just how much of the coming battle's tactics and strategies he was aware of.

“Well, I presume you'll be leading the Sacred Regiment rather than the phalanx of Tri-Horns. They're too slow – fine for siege warfare or as the anvil of a battlefield assault, but you prefer to be the hammer.”

She laughed affectionately. “I do at that, and you're right, I'll probably be in the saddle from dawn till well after dusk. Oh well, that's the joy of conquest and command.”

Alexandros watched her for a moment, assessing her mood. She seemed happy to talk, so he decided to try and gather some more information. “And after the victory, I suppose we must prepare for the assault on the Polypontian capital?”

“Of course,” she answered, quirking her eyebrow to show him that she knew perfectly well he was milking her for facts and figures. “But I won't be leading it.”

Her Consort dropped the tray of drinking vessels he'd been tidying to give his hands something to do in the Basilea's presence. Fortunately they were bronze, and simply bounced
over the thick carpets, and he quickly gathered them together. “You won't be leading the assault?”

“No,” she replied, enjoying his shock. “I've decided to forgo the glory as a sacrifice to the Great Goddess. Ever since breaking out of the homelands of Artemesion I've led the Hordes in victory after victory. Too much success for one commander can lead to overconfidence. The Goddess hates such human arrogance, so Ariadne will lead the assault on the capital.”

“Does she have the necessary experience?”

“Are you doubting my judgement?” Erinor suddenly snapped, her voice like a whip-crack in the quiet yurt.

Alexandros, already on the carpet to collect the fallen goblets, bowed his head to the ground. “Such disloyal and misguided thoughts had never entered my head, your Eminence. And I beg forgiveness that my demeanour should cause you to believe that they had.”

Erinor left him prone at her feet for a few moments while he relearned his role and position as her Consort. As the premier couple amongst the Hypolitan they reflected their society perfectly. Like all men, Alexandros was there to serve his spouse and comfort her as she saw fit. Like all men, his comfort and shelter depended entirely upon his wife, and like all men he had no rights to property or representation within either law or government. In fact, if Hypolitan edict was followed to the letter, no man owned anything at all, including the clothes he wore or even his own body. Once married he was entirely the property of his wife, and before marriage he belonged to his mother or his next nearest female relative.

“I hope your head isn't wearing out my carpet,” Erinor finally said lightly, to show that he was forgiven.

“No, your Eminence,” said Alexandros, jumping to his feet. He was aware that the Basilea was now joking, but he'd never smiled in his wife's company before, and would be shocked at the idea of doing so now.

“Good. I'm tired. You may prepare the bed. Oh, and this time, make sure you warm my side properly.”

Her Consort bowed low and went immediately to prepare the sleeping quarters.

Far off within the depths of the Darkness, the Arc-Adept Cronus analysed what he had just witnessed. There were times when the Basilea thought for herself, and the results were rarely good. But as he scrutinised Erinor's decision to sacrifice her command of the attack on Romula he could find little in the way of difficulties. After all, the Polypontian Empire was on the brink of collapse, and even with the help of the Icemark and its allies it was unlikely to survive.

But at base its survival or destruction was of little real interest to the Arc-Adept; the war for the empire was purely a diversion, a decoy that was designed only to draw Oskan and his witches away from the Icemark, so that he, Cronus, could begin the invasion of the Physical Realms. Of course, he could simply have begun his invasion at some other point on the physical globe. But the Icemark was a perfect place to establish the first bridgehead of his occupation. Not only was it close to the agreeable Land-of-the-Ghosts, but the presence of Oskan and his witches had saturated the atmosphere with psychic power. Power that could be utilised to evil ends by the most brilliant Arc-Adept in all Creation.

His strategies really were flawless, and so far everything was going perfectly to plan.

*   *   *

Olememnon crept into the bedroom as quietly as several pints of beer and a huge steak pie would allow. He'd spent most of the evening with Grishmak and Tharaman, and though the Thar had been quieter than usual, the werewolf King had been his normal boisterous self, and, as always, had managed to persuade the Consort of the Basilea to eat and drink far too much.

Olememnon groped through the darkened room, hiccupping gently and trying to navigate his way to where he thought he remembered the bed had been the night before. The amount of beer he'd drunk suddenly made him supremely confident, and he strode out with determination and walked into a chair, barking his shins painfully.

For the next few seconds he hopped around in slow circles, holding first one leg and then the other as he whispered obscenities to himself. But eventually the pain subsided, and he set out for where he believed the bed to be with undiminished determination.

“Oh, for goodness' sake, it's over here, Ollie!” said a voice from a point directly behind him.

“Eh? Oh! Are you still awake, my love?”

“Well, I wasn't,” said Olympia, the Basilea of the Icemark Hypolitan, “but twenty stones of beer-steeped warrior staggering around your bedroom tends to wake you up.”

“My most profound apologies, Ma'am,” Ollie replied with deep formality. “I was . . . I was discussing tactics with the Thar and King Grishmak.”

“Oh, yes. I'm sure you were,” said Olympia with deep scepticism. “And what gems of military genius did you come up with?”

“Ah, well! They were truly brilliant . . . but unfortunately, they seem to have temporarily slipped my mind,” he replied, sitting on the edge of the bed and wrestling with his boots. “But when they return, the world of military tactics will be astounded.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Olympia, lighting a candle and squinting at her Consort as he finally managed to remove his last boot and throw it into the farthest corner. “How was Tharaman?”

“A little quiet, actually,” Ollie replied. “There's still no news of Kirimin or the princes.”

“No. As if we haven't enough to worry about with the Hypolitan of Artemesion destroying the world, now two of our best commanders are distracted by the fact their children are missing!”

“
Four
of our best commanders are distracted, if you count Krisafitsa and Oskan.”

“Yes . . . yes. I suppose so. Have you seen the Witchfather recently?”

“No, he's too busy preparing the medical units for the upcoming campaign, or searching the Magical Realms for the kids.”

Olympia sighed, her mind suddenly overloaded by the stresses of the pending war. “Ollie, do you . . . do you ever feel guilty?”

“About what?”

“About the fact that it's Hypolitan who are causing this war?”

“No. It might be Hypolitan causing the war, but it's not
our
Hypolitan, is it?”

“I suppose not, but we share a culture.”

Ollie, having finally managed to peel off his clothes, leaped into the bed with an ecstatic sigh. “I wouldn't be too sure about the culture thing either. Some reports coming in from the Polypontus suggest we're dealing with some very backward types here. You know, expendable males used as shock troops, no rights for men in either law or administration, that sort of thing.”

“Yes, I know. But let's face it, some of our more . . . old-fashioned citizens might think that a good thing. I've even heard one or two talking about the
purity
of Hypolitan culture being preserved by the Artemesion tribes.”

Ollie put his hands behind his head and gazed contemplatively at the ceiling. “You'll always get nutters and fanatics in any society, but most of us realise things are better than they were.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Olympia agreed. “But if Thirrin and the rest hear comments about cultural purity too often, they might start doubting our loyalty.”

“Surely not; they'll know it's only the rantings of a few fundamentalist loonies.”

“You're probably right, but perhaps the time's right for purging the ranks of some of these unsavoury types.”