Last Battle of the Icemark (19 page)

Kirimin didn't bother to answer; she was too busy watching the wraiths as they gathered their bodies from the world around them. Unfortunately for the three friends, they'd decided to manifest in what looked like an old blacksmith's workshop, and soon seven gigantic forms appeared, made up of jagged shards of broken metal, pieces of chain and glitteringly sharp tools. One seemed to be made almost entirely of different-sized files, ranging from truly gigantic rasps, used to smooth horseshoes onto hooves, to delicate, blade-like instruments that wouldn't have looked amiss in a jeweller's shop.

“Oh, great!” said Mekhmet. “Terrifying and more dangerous than an entire squadron of Imperial cavalry. Just what we need.”

“Well, it's no good sitting here and talking about it. They've got physical bodies now. Let's do something!” said Sharley. Drawing his scimitar, he charged.

Mekhmet watched open-mouthed as Suleiman leaped forward, then, gathering his wits, he too drew his sword and
galloped into the attack.

Kirimin flattened her ears in fear and anger. “Oh, bloody hell,” she snarled. “How stupid! How typically male!” And roaring out a challenge she joined in the assault.

Sparks flew as the boys struck at the wraiths with their scimitars. But encased in iron and steel as they were, the ghosts were impregnable. Kirimin beat at them with her huge, clawed paws, but only succeeded in gashing her flesh on their shells of broken metal. Quickly the friends drew back and turned for the gate. Strategic withdrawal was no disgrace, and at the present time they had no answer for the ghosts' armour. But it was too late. Their retreat was cut off by two of the phantoms standing directly in the gateway.

“Things are definitely not looking bright,” said Mekhmet, as they retreated to the middle of the courtyard.

“No,” Sharley agreed, trying to sound far braver than he felt. “In fact I think this could very well be it. There's nothing we can do against armoured ghosts.”

Kirimin licked her cut paw and squinted at the wraiths that were howling and screaming in the shadows. “Why don't they just attack and get it over with?”

“I don't know. Perhaps they're just taunting us,” said Mekhmet. “You know, like cat and mouse, with us definitely in the role of the rodents.”

The ghostly screeching rose to a higher pitch, and the friends turned to each other and hugged. This was it. This was the end. They'd never get back to see friends and family, they'd never get back to their own world where everything was so ordinary and . . . and real. They closed their eyes and waited in silence.

But then the screeching took on a different quality; it
sounded less murderous and more uncertain, as though the ghosts weren't so sure they could kill them any more.

After a few minutes Sharley risked opening his eyes, and there before them stood the figure of a man. He was elegantly dressed, and his posture seemed to suggest he was almost bored.

“Oh, please! I mean, how clichéd. It's a wonder you're not wearing white sheets and going ‘wooo'!”

The ghosts raged back at him in what was obviously a language of some sort, because the man finally stopped inspecting his nails and looked up to answer. “Do you know, as surprising as it may seem, I really don't care if it's your job to kill mortals. You're not killing these.”

The wraiths advanced menacingly on him, and the change in the elegant figure was startling and instantaneous. He snapped upright, bristling with fury, and his lips drew back in a ferocious hiss that revealed long white fangs. “One step nearer and I'll rip your ectoplasmic bodies to shreds and freeze your pathetic souls!” His voice barely rose above a vicious whisper, but it echoed around the courtyard and the ghosts retreated.

Again the screeching rose and fell in the semblance of a language, and eventually the man said: “Well, exactly who has sent you on this ‘mission'?” A pause, and then: “As you wish. It's of no importance anyway. If the devil himself had ordered their deaths I still wouldn't let you kill them!”

This seemed to decide something for the ghosts, and they suddenly rushed the man, their iron-clad bodies clanking and clashing like an earthquake in a saucepan factory. As one they converged on the lonely figure, and he disappeared under a tangle of ironmongery. But then, with a sudden eruption of
rusting metal, the seven ghosts flew through the air and landed in a clanging, banging heap on the far side of the courtyard. The man now advanced with a slow, stalking stealth like a hunting cat, his lips drawn back over glittering fangs and his eyes aflame with rage.

With a gesture both elegant and powerful, he pointed at the heap and a great howl rose up until a bright point of light hung shimmering in the air above it. For a moment it scintillated, and then fell with a brittle chink onto the stones of the courtyard.

“Your choice has been made; you attacked and I have punished. Now, who else will surrender their soul to my wrath?”

Six ragged skeins of mist rose up from the broken metal and fled screaming, their voices diminishing to a distant echo and then finally silence. The man stooped, picked up the tiny shred of light and placed it in his pocket, as though he'd found a coin. Then he turned and regarded the boys and Kirimin, who'd witnessed it all.

Sharley and Mekhmet still held their scimitars, but something told them to remain still and offer no challenge. “Who are you?” asked Sharley curtly.

“Someone who has just saved your life, young man,” came the reply, and the man walked over to stand before them with indolent ease. “A little gratitude might not go amiss.”

“Then have our thanks, and willingly given,” Sharley answered. “Please excuse us if we seem overly suspicious, but I'm sure you'll appreciate our caution while travelling in this particular place. You, erm . . . you appear to be a vampire.”

The man smiled, revealing his glittering fangs. “Not any more, technically speaking. You see, I'm the ghost of a vampire.”

“But vampires don't have ghosts,” said Kirimin. “Everybody knows that.”

“Well, I am the exception to that general rule,” the man answered.

“But how? And why?” asked Sharley in confusion.

“It's quite simple really,” the man said, folding his arms and shifting his weight to one hip so that he looked exactly like some of the statues Sharley had seen in Venezzia. “At the end of my long physical . . . existence, I learned to feel compassion, and friendship – and also, most importantly, I developed the capacity to love. And as these qualities are the very things that are the building blocks of the spirit, I found that I had developed a soul.”

“Who did you love?” asked Kirimin, her romantic nature moved by the idea.

“Ah, that answer is simply given, but would take an age to explain. Suffice it to say that she made the aching burden of Vampiric existence as light as the touch of moonlight; she filled the darkness with the radiance of her beauty and she gave the formless aeons a shape and purpose.”

Kirimin sighed. “Does she have a name?”

The man frowned. “I'm afraid we both lost our names down the long ages of the epochs we spent together. But she does have a title.” He paused, consciously raising the dramatic effect, then finally said: “She is known as Her Vampiric Majesty, and she is now the sole ruler of The-Land-of-the-Ghosts.”

“Then you must be the Vampire King!” said Sharley.

His Vampiric Majesty smiled and bowed. “The very same.”

“But you were destroyed in the war against the empire,”
said Sharley, trying not to let his jaw drop in amazement.

“Indeed I was.” The King conceded.

“Didn't Bellorum destroy you?” asked Mekhmet.

“Definitely not!” snapped the King. “The weapon that ended my long rule was nothing other than treachery, wielded by that loathsome dog. I'd defeated him in fair contest, using only rapier and dagger, and never once resorting to my supernatural powers. He lay at my feet bleeding from the many wounds I'd inflicted. And then, when he raised his hand, I gave quarter, as a gentleman must, and prepared to grant him his final wish before performing the coup de grâce. It was then that the treacherous worm ordered in over a hundred musketeers.”

“But lead shot wouldn't have killed you,” said Sharley.

“Indeed not,” the King agreed. “But each musket was loaded with wooden bullets, and my physical existence was ended there and then.”

“I see,” said Sharley as he absorbed the information. Then, remembering the needs of the moment, he went on: “But to get back to our present situation, what I don't understand is why you decided to help us against the ghosts just now.”

“Quite simple, young Lindenshield,” said the King with a small bow. “I rescued you in deference to your mother. Queen Thirrin became a friend despite many long years of enmity between the Icemark and The-Land-of-the-Ghosts. For a mortal, she was, and is, truly great, and had the greatness of spirit to offer friendship even above the demands of treaty and alliance. When you meet again, remember me to her.”

“You don't know how we can get back to the physical world, do you?” Kirimin suddenly blurted. “I just thought that as you're a ghost, you might know where the tunnels are.”

“Alas no, Princess Kirimin,” said His Vampiric Majesty. “The location of the gateways between the worlds never remain constant. A tunnel to the mortal realms this week may become a simple network of caves the next.”

“Oh, well, I just thought I'd ask,” she said quietly.

The Vampire King smiled sadly, then turned back to Sharley. “And now I would ask a favour of you.”

“Of me?”

“Yes, when you return to the physical realms I would deem it the greatest of favours if you would go to the Blood Palace and seek audience with Her Vampiric Majesty. Tell her . . .” he paused as sadness gathered in his features. “Tell her that I exist still, and that if she too learns compassion and love then we will meet again, once she has laid down the terrible burden of her physical continuance.”

“I will,” said Sharley simply.

“I have been watching her almost nightly, but of course she can't see me, and even when I kiss her she merely feels a gentle draught across her lips.” The Vampire King shook his head sadly, then, seeming to recollect where he was, he bowed with an elegant flourish, and after blowing them all a kiss with his exquisitely gloved hand, he slowly faded away. “Remember,” his voice echoed on the air. “Remember.”

Kirimin sighed again. “How beautiful.”

“What is?” asked Mekhmet.

“That their love should have survived for so many centuries and still live on even after death.”

“Oh, that . . . yes, I suppose it is beautiful. Perhaps the sages are right; nothing is ever completely evil. Even the worst of us have a spark of good somewhere within us.”

“I could think of a few exceptions,” said Sharley.

A sudden flapping of wings interrupted their thoughts. “It seems that mortals enjoy a surfeit of good luck!” said Pious as he circled above them. “You were in deep trouble before that Vampire arrived. Those ghosts would've reduced you to gooey jam!”

“Oh, shut up,” snapped Mekhmet. “Why don't you just flap off somewhere and leave us in peace?”

Kirimin and Sharley both agreed loudly with this, and the Imp spiralled away. “I know when I'm not wanted!” he called as he flew off.

“Some power's obviously working against me, and this time I don't think it's the Witchfather,” Medea said to Orla as she swept off to her great chair to think.

The old witch said nothing, and waited in silence for her mistress to go on.

“It could, of course, be something higher; in fact, it could be something far higher. But if She's getting involved, why doesn't She just perform a minor miracle and transport them back home?”

“The actions of the Goddess are always a mystery,” Orla said quietly.

Medea nodded in weary agreement. “Though there's always the possibility that we're all being put through some sort of tedious ‘learning process'.” She slammed her hands down on the arms of her chair-that-was-almost-a-throne. “She's so pathetic! Grandfather's completely right to reject Her. When he finally begins his war against Her he can count on my support!”

Orla nodded, then hoping to distract her from her worries she asked: “Would the mistress perhaps like a little wine?”

“No, the mistress would not!” Medea snapped in reply. “The only vintage that would satisfy my thirst would be about eight pints tapped from the veins of Charlemagne Weak-in-the-Leg Lindenshield!”

C
HAPTER
15

C
ressida climbed the tightly winding corkscrew of the spiral staircase and finally emerged on the wind-blasted pinnacle of the highest lookout tower in the citadel. Being in strict battle-training, she wasn't breathless at all despite the hard climb, and she quickly looked about her and smiled when she saw her father.

“Couldn't we have met over a mug of mulled wine in a quiet parlour somewhere?” she asked ironically as an icy gust of wind howled through the tower's battlements.

“This is more private,” Oskan answered. “There are things I want to discuss, and I don't want them generally known.”

Cressida secretly wondered who'd be foolish enough to spy on the Witchfather, but said nothing. Instead she climbed onto the viewing platform and looked out over the Plain of Frostmarris towards the Great Forest, a distant haze of autumnal golds and reds.

“Fine. What do you want to talk about?” she asked in a characteristically direct manner that made Oskan smile despite the grimness of the situation.

“I need your help in the Magical Plains,” her father went
on, deciding to adopt his daughter's directness.

She swung round in amazement. “
You
need
my
help in matters supernatural? But why?”

Oskan sat down on the edge of the viewing platform and patted the cold stone next to him, as though inviting his daughter to sit on a comfortable cushion. Cressida joined him and waited patiently for an explanation.

Her father rested his elbows on his knees and gazed sightlessly ahead. “You've never actually been told this before, Cressida, but you have a powerful magical talent.”

“
Me
, magical?” she said incredulously.

“Yes; in fact, in your own way, you're almost as powerful as Medea is.”

She wasn't surprised to hear Oskan refer to her sister in the present tense. Somehow she'd known she wasn't dead, and keeping her ears open over the last few weeks had confirmed it. Her mother and father were constantly having hurried and hushed conversations that stopped abruptly whenever anyone walked into the room, but the name Medea had hung in the air like a storm cloud.

“Exactly how am I as powerful as that vixen?” Cressida finally asked.

“You know she's alive, then?”

“Of course,” she answered. “You don't get rid of a nasty stain on the family's fabric like Medea that easily. But you still haven't told me; how am I as powerful as her?”

“
Almost
as powerful,” Oskan corrected. “But still, your Gift could withstand anything she sent against you.”

“Look, are you going to tell me or not?”

He smiled at her impatience. “You're immune to magic.”

“Oh, so I can't blast the bitch to death, then?”

“No, I'm afraid not. Your Gift is completely passive, you can't actually ‘use' it as such; it just is.”

“Well, what's the use of that? If I'm going to be magical I'd sooner have something I can actively use, like . . . like . . . oh, I don't know . . . the ability to incinerate enemies, or call a storm . . . something like that.”

“I know you would,” Oskan replied, feeling a huge upwelling of pride for his warrior daughter. “But the Gift you have is enormously useful, and powerful. Nobody can harm you magically; not even Cronus himself could blast you. If an Adept conjured a weapon into existence it couldn't be used against you; they couldn't even lay a magical trap for you, or lead you astray. Don't you see, the ramifications are enormous!”

“Yeah, but they could still kill me with a real weapon; I could still be ambushed using conventional methods, couldn't I?”

“Well, yes,” Oskan agreed. “But you could walk through any part of the Magical Realms and not be harmed by anything other than physical means. In fact, you could even walk through the Darkness itself and come out completely unscathed by evil magic, and that's what I want to talk to you about . . .”

“The Darkness?”

“Yes. I need you to lead a unit of hand-picked werewolves and housecarles to hold off the Ice Demons while I . . . confront Medea.”

“Hah, now,
they
could do me damage,” she said, referring to the Ice Demons, which all mortals knew about, especially as they'd peopled ghost stories and nightmares since their earliest childhoods. “They're as physical as a lump of granite
smashed on the back of your head.”

“Exactly,” Oskan agreed. “And I need your fighting expertise to keep them at bay while I attack your beloved sister.”

“Is this so that you can rescue Sharley and the others?”

“Yes. If I can injure her enough to break her hold over them, it'll be a simple matter of transporting them back home.”

“I see,” said Cressida with quiet relish. “When do we go?”

Her father smiled and squeezed her hand. “One thing. Your mother mustn't know about this. She has no magical Gifts and she's got enough to worry about with Erinor. I want to go in, rescue Sharley and get out again without her knowing a thing.”

“Agreed,” said Cressida.

Over the next few minutes they discussed the logistics of their upcoming raid and finalised the details. Then, with her characteristic energy, the Crown Princess suddenly stood, kissed him on the cheek and rushed off to begin putting her plans into action.

Oskan watched her go and sighed gently; her fire and tough tenderness reminded him so much of her mother. In fact, there were many strong warriors in his family and all of them were an odd combination of disciplined violence and deeply loving gentleness; Sharley and Eodred too. How could he ever leave such a fascinating, adorable, contradictory rabble? How could he bring himself to risk losing them for ever?

“Because if you don't you will lose them anyway, and everything else you've ever known and loved.”

Oskan looked up, and wasn't particularly surprised to see that he'd been joined once again by the Goddess's Messenger.

“That hardly represents a choice,” the Witchfather said quietly. “Use the weapon against Cronus and destroy yourself in the process, or don't use it and risk seeing the world and all you've ever loved falling into ruin.”

The Messenger smiled gently. “Even obvious decisions are sometimes difficult to make.”

“Why is it so obvious?” Oskan asked with sudden steel. “The only real certainty is that I will definitely die if I use this weapon – but if I don't, there's still hope that Cronus will ultimately be defeated, and all of the destruction and chaos he inflicts on the world can be somehow . . . cleared away and repaired.”

The Messenger shook her head sadly. “There is no physical or psychic power that can stand against him. He is the channel and conduit of all the corrupt energy that exists in the entire realm of the Darkness. What chance would any have against him?”

“None,” Oskan agreed. “Unless they too used the Power of the Darkness.”

The next day Olememnon and Basilea Olympia reviewed the army. Drawn up in their regiments and squadrons across the Plain of Frostmarris, the warriors looked truly formidable. Werewolves, Snow Leopards and human beings stretched into the distance, and the variously coloured banners fluttered and snapped bravely in the freezing breeze.

The dual heads of Hypolitan society stood on a specially constructed podium, and with an imperious nod from the Basilea the army began to march past. This was in fact only a dress rehearsal for the parade that would take place in a few days' time, when the army would march off to the invasion of
the Polypontus. Haste was needed if they were going to be ready before the heavy snows of the winter fell and blocked the passes into the lands of the empire. Once south of the Dancing Maidens they should be safe from the more extreme weather, and even though there'd undoubtedly be snow, it wouldn't fall in the blinding, blood-freezing blizzards of the Icemark. It would even be possible to fight and march in the depths of the Polypontian winter, and the further south they got, the snows would probably change to rain. This in itself would bring its own problems with mud and impassable roads, but at least there'd be no danger of freezing to death.

As a result, training and preparations for the war had been accelerated to a greater level than was normal, but Thirrin had demanded that no corners be cut, and she'd even insisted that the traditional parade of the army should take place so that the citizens of the Icemark could have a sense of participation in the coming offensive. So it was that the dress rehearsal for the parade had also been scheduled, even if the Queen did show a reluctance to take part in it herself. In fact, both the Basilea and her Consort were only ‘taking the salute' as stand-ins for Thirrin and Cressida, who were the real Commanders-in-Chief of the Allied force.

Olympia couldn't help but marvel at the ironic turn events had taken. If anyone had told her only a year ago that an army of humans, werewolves and Snow Leopards would be preparing to march into Imperial lands in an attempt to defend what remained of the empire from marauding Hordes, she'd have laughed. And yet, here she was nodding at the salutes of generals and commanders as section after section of the army marched by. And strangest of all was the fact that Polypontian units were included in that relieving force. In the last few
weeks, the Imperial sections of the Allied army had swelled significantly, as more and more of the Polypontian armed forces had fled into exile to regroup and prepare to strike back at Erinor.

General Andronicus had become something of an icon to the ‘Free Imperial Army' as they called themselves, and he rode by now at the head of over twenty thousand cavalry, thirty thousand pike and fifteen thousand shield bearers. There were also ten thousand musketeers, but as they only had enough powder and ammunition amongst them to fire three rounds each, their weapons had become largely symbolic. Nonetheless, the Polypontian soldiers fiercely defended their right to carry their muskets, and had only reluctantly agreed to train as swordsmen to back up their meagre firepower.

Olympia watched the fat general fondly as he rode by on his big-boned horse and smiled broadly at her. In the few weeks she had known him, he'd become a dear friend. He was witty, charming and just plain good fun; Ollie said he had an appetite that almost equalled a Snow Leopard's, and what greater compliment could there be than that? And Grishmak and the general had become almost inseparable as they explored the deepest cellars in search of rare wines and beers. Oskan, it had to be said, rarely spoke to the Polypontian soldier, but then they had so little in common, and they were more than polite to each other.

Yes, thought Olympia to herself, there have been very few problems with either the general or his soldiers. Every one of them has settled in nicely, and after a few initial skirmishes even the housecarles and werewolves seem to have accepted them . . . in a qualified sort of way.

But the Basilea knew full well that Thirrin still had a problem with both the Imperial soldiers and their general. Despite her best efforts and intentions, the idea of forgiving the people who'd killed her father and son, and who'd destroyed the lives of so many of the citizens of the Icemark, was alien to her. As a tactician and strategist, she was fully aware of the value of the Polypontian sections of the army, and she had no doubt they'd fight well. Few others had such first-hand knowledge of their martial abilities, but she couldn't bring herself to happily accept their presence in a force that she commanded.

Olympia had watched the Queen struggle with her understandable prejudices and searched fruitlessly for ways of helping. In the end she had just had to accept that this was a battle that Thirrin would have to fight alone.

“They look very handy, don't you think?” said Ollie, interrupting her thoughts.

“Umm?”

“The army, handy.”

“Oh, yes, very,” Olympia answered distractedly. She continued to mull things over for a while, then asked, “Where did you say Thirrin and Cressida were?”

Ollie turned from avidly watching the march-past and regarded his wife. “Going over the arrangements for supply and general logistics; you know what a stickler Cressida is for detail. Why?”

“Oh, nothing really; I was just wondering if she was . . . well, if she was trying to avoid watching the Polypontian sections marching past.”

“Why on earth should she?” asked Ollie in surprise.

“Simple really. Painful memories.”

“Oh, I see. Well, we all have those, don't we? Everyone in
the High Command's a veteran of at least one war against the empire, and most of us have fought two!”

“Yes, very true. But none of us have lost a father and a son in the fighting.”

“No,” Ollie conceded. “But . . . but times have changed, and everyone knows that yesterday's enemy is often tomorrow's ally. If we're going to stop that Erinor and the Artemesion Hypolitan, by all accounts we're going to need everyone we can get, and Andronicus is a good general with actual experience of fighting her.”